Had solemnized a monstrous curse,
Meeting in this fair solitude: 
For beneath yon very sky,
Had they resigned to one another 160
Body and soul.  The multitude: 
Tracking them to the secret wood,
Tore limb from limb their innocent child,
And stabbed and trampled on its mother;
But the youth, for God’s most holy grace, 165
A priest saved to burn in the market-place.

Duly at evening Helen came
To this lone silent spot,
From the wrecks of a tale of wilder sorrow
So much of sympathy to borrow 170
As soothed her own dark lot. 
Duly each evening from her home,
With her fair child would Helen come
To sit upon that antique seat,
While the hues of day were pale; 175
And the bright boy beside her feet
Now lay, lifting at intervals
His broad blue eyes on her;
Now, where some sudden impulse calls
Following.  He was a gentle boy 180
And in all gentle sorts took joy;
Oft in a dry leaf for a boat,
With a small feather for a sail,
His fancy on that spring would float,
If some invisible breeze might stir 185
Its marble calm:  and Helen smiled
Through tears of awe on the gay child,
To think that a boy as fair as he,
In years which never more may be,
By that same fount, in that same wood, 190
The like sweet fancies had pursued;
And that a mother, lost like her,
Had mournfully sate watching him. 
Then all the scene was wont to swim
Through the mist of a burning tear. 195

For many months had Helen known
This scene; and now she thither turned
Her footsteps, not alone. 
The friend whose falsehood she had mourned,
Sate with her on that seat of stone. 200
Silent they sate; for evening,
And the power its glimpses bring
Had, with one awful shadow, quelled
The passion of their grief.  They sate
With linked hands, for unrepelled 205
Had Helen taken Rosalind’s. 
Like the autumn wind, when it unbinds
The tangled locks of the nightshade’s hair,
Which is twined in the sultry summer air
Round the walls of an outworn sepulchre, 210
Did the voice of Helen, sad and sweet,
And the sound of her heart that ever beat,
As with sighs and words she breathed on her,
Unbind the knots of her friend’s despair,
Till her thoughts were free to float and flow; 215
And from her labouring bosom now,
Like the bursting of a prisoned flame,
The voice of a long pent sorrow came.