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So perfect in its beauty—the bright tint,
The flush of red, had marred its loveliness.
Helena.
So very fair, Giovanni?
Giovanni.
She is dead—
Disconsolate, deserted, pity first
Melted my youthful heart; then love's quick flame
Arose. My father sternly had despoiled
Her life of hope; I felt a generous wish
To bid it bloom again. We fled away,
And married—
Helena.
Married, my Giovanni?
Giovanni.
Why dost thou start, and turn away thy head,
Struggling to quit my arms? I told thee, sweet,
That she was dead. Oh! do not envy her
The short brief gleam of sunshine that illumed
Her cheerless life. Sailing along the deep,
