Thus she lay, so fair and rigid, with her maidens weeping round her—
Thus she lay, so still and pallid, when a low, appalling cry,
Such as men have seldom uttered, broke in part the spell that bound her,
And a father's sorrow won from her an audible, faint sigh.
"Oh, my daughter!" cried the father; "oh, my darling—my Lorenzia!
Who hath slain thee? What hath harmed thee? Ah, that thou shouldst die and leave me!"
Then a few slow tears came stealing down his cheeks and cooled his phrensy;
Still he whispered 'twixt his anguish, "Grave restore her, or receive me;"
Till his sorrow seemed to give her strength, and she looked up, essaying
Such a faint, slow, sad, and flickering smile, more touching than mere pain,
That her father's heart was broken yet once more, and without staying,
All the fountains of his tears run o'er in hot and sudden rain.
Yet he wept not long—'twas not his mood—his was a different mould;
And this the only spell by which his soul could e'er be shaken;
For to all besides his daughter was his bearing proud and cold,
And men knew no other theme his softness could awaken.
So all calmly soon he turned him to the maidens round him waiting,
And inquired of them still calmly how their mistress had come ill;
And they then—the favorite foremost—quick began the tale by stating,
Between sobs and lamentations she had not the power to still,
That as she was gayly chatting, at her mistress' feet reclining,
Stringing pearls to braid that evening in the tresses of her hair,
She bethought her of a rumor of the duke, which she divining
