“Love! look not thus incredulous of hope! 
    This temple was thy lover’s handiwork—­
    This curious spring he wrought,—­and what he did
    He can undo.  My sweetest! it is I:—­
    Thy living, breathing BERTHO stands before thee! 
    This happiness, at least, I owe the Queen,
    Who, since repentant, may her gift resume,
    Should Heaven not grant us now a quick escape. 
    But once—­this once—­though death should press me next—­
    Come to my arms—­to thy dear bosom draw me,
    So fondly close!—­and feed my famished lips
    With kisses worth a life of wo to gain! 
    Nay, pause not to inquire—­’tis better thus
    To feel the throbbing of thy timid heart,
    Than to waste breath in words.—­

                                    “How did it come? 
    I know not:  I was tranced in sleep profound,
    And when I woke I was my former self. 
    Queen OENE hoped my gratitude would grow
    To love, in time; and I was grateful—­would
    Have given her everything but what was thine,
    And that alone she coveted.  Come, sweet! 
    Fly from this land forlorn:—­if miracles
    Are still in fashion, one might serve us well. 
    Cling to my guiding hand; trust all to me;
    My soul is so elate I would not flinch
    From meeting every imp of this dark land—­
    The touch of thy soft hand is such a triumph!”

    Even while his accents lingered, they were gone
    By an obscure and solitary path,
    Until they came upon some rough-hewn steps,
    Which wandered round and down, interminable.—­
    A stairway leading to the upper world
    For the ascent of gnomes, who dwelt beneath
    In those huge tidal caves which underlaid
    Old Thug, upheaved from earth in ancient times. 
    Silent the lovers fled; their locks grew wet
    With mildew, and their breath came gaspingly. 
    A sound of gibbering gnomes, of elfish song—­
    Mingling high discords with the patient clink
    Of instruments of toil—­of laughter strange—­
    Warned them of the wild laborers they must meet. 
    A moment more, and the pale fugitives
    Stood at the bottom of those countless steps,
    Peering into the lowest deep of all. 
    A hell-like spot! and spirits of the doomed
    Were scarce more haggard than the clumsy elves
    Who here pursued their coarse and perilous toil.

    ’Tis in these horrible caverns, deep and wide,
    Each day the ocean sinks, when, rushing round
    With the swift world, he falls into this snare;
    From whence with groans, and anger impotent,
    He backward struggles to his bed of sand
    And lies there panting; while the credulous earth,
    Dreaming of love, looks on him with a smile,
    Saying—­“He pineth for the sweet-faced Moon;”—­
    Thus had he just receded, when the pair