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Like fairy gold dropped on the distant hill;
That pretty token of remembrance,
Forget-me-not, and violets more sweet
Than those my hands have planted, lure my steps;
I must restrain the impulse——
Giovanni.
Why, my love?
Helena.
A snake hath coiled its odious form amid
Those blooming wilds. Alas! my dear Giovanni,
Since thou hast given shelter to that man,
That dark, mysterious Garcia, he who begged
A lodging in the woodland hut, so long
Untenanted—I dare not stir abroad.
Giovanni.
Is poverty a crime with thee, Helena?
Helena.
Oh, no: I quarrel with his heavy brow,
The sinister malicious looks he casts
On thee, my love, when taking from thy hand
