XXXIV.

I look’d on Leonor,--and if there seem’d A cloud of more than pensiveness to rise In the faint smiles that o’er her features gleam’d, And the soft darkness of her serious eyes, Misty with tender gloom, I call’d it naught But the fond exile’s pang, a lingering thought Of her own vale, with all its melodies And living light of streams. Her soul would rest Beneath your shades, I said, bowers of the gorgeous West!