Upon a bed of straw by famine pinched,
With nothing save my tears to quench thy thirst
And bless my fate: how very wretched then
Must be my lot since happiness is shaped
By hopeless anguish in such horrid forms?
Geraldi.
My Veronica, when the laurel wreath
Was twined around my brow, when at my feet.
The brilliant trophies of successful war
Were laid by prostrate kings—in that proud hour ⠀
Fancy portrayed thee as the hero's bride,
Thy timid beauty crowned with dazzling gems,
Thy chariot drawn by thronging multitudes
Eager to pay thee homage, 'mid the sound
Of swelling instruments, but sweeter far
The music of a grateful people's prayers—
A fearful change, my Veronica! barred
Within a noisome dungeon; from thine arms
Dragged to a shameful death. My love hath been
To thee a blighting curse; that form of light,
