XLV.

Torture! the sorrow of affections eye, Fixing its meekness on the spirit’s core, Deeper, and teaching more of agony, May pierce than many swords!--and this I bore With a mute pang. Since I had vainly striven From its free springs to pour the truth of heaven Into thy trembling soul, my Leonor! Silence rose up where hearts no hope could share: Alas! for those that love, and may not blend in prayer!