VII.

He plucked his poniard in its sheath, But sheathed it ere the point was bare; Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, He could not slay a thing so fair-- 110 At least, not smiling--sleeping--there-- Nay, more:--he did not wake her then, But gazed upon her with a glance Which, had she roused her from her trance, Had frozen her sense to sleep again; And o'er his brow the burning lamp Gleamed on the dew-drops big and damp. She spake no more--but still she slumbered-- While, in his thought, her days are numbered.