I.

With bloodshot eyes the morning rose Upon a world of gloom and tears; A kindred glance queen Isoud shows-- Come night, come morn, cease not her fears. The fog-clouds whiten all the vale, The sunlight draws them to its love; The diamond dews wash ev'ry dale, Where bays the hunt within the grove. Her lute--the one her touch he taught To wake beneath the stars a song Of swan-caught music--is as naught And on yon damask lounge is flung. Down o'er her cheeks her hair she draws In golden rays 'twixt lily tips, And gazes sad on gloomy shaws 'Neath which had often touched their lips.