Fountains gushed in the shade, and flowers bloomed,
And vines were clambering over trellised walks,
And balconies were radiant with bloom;
All things without were lovely; and within
Was a charmed dwelling; so much art,
With wealth and skill, had fashioned that was fair.
But one who came, paused at the outer gate,
And pondered long before he took his way
Toward the high-arched portal. There he paused,
And laid his hand upon his beating heart
To still its sickening tumult.
Menials bade
The stranger enter softly, for that death
Was then within their walls. He hushed his heart,
And questioned of them who had lately died;
And they told him this story: "She who lies
Shrouded in yonder chamber, has long been
Bereft of reason, though so sweet and kind,
And so majestic in her daily port,
That none except her household ever knew
The wildness of her fancies. But she had
A phantasy that some one, one Alberto,
Was gone upon a pilgrimage, from which
When he returned he'd claim her for his bride.
And so she planned this palace and these grounds,
And furnished all things to receive her love.
She had a portrait in a certain chamber,
Which she said was Alberto's; and a chair,
Fashioned luxuriously, was set beside
A table covered with the choicest books;
And here she sat sometimes with her guitar,
On a low ottoman, beside that chair,
And thought that she was listened to by him;
And would look up, and smile, and chide his frowns;
But this was only in her wildest moods.
At length her reason came, and she fell ill,
And wasted with consumption. But she died
In the room called Alberto's.
