VII.

But from out those treach'rous roses Crept a serpent and it stung, Poisoned him who'd tuned my heart-strings Till for him alone they sung, Froze the nerves of hands that only From its chords a note had wrung.

Now the nightingales in anguish To cold, ashen roses moan; Now a sound of desolate wailing In the darkened palace lone From a harp Æolian quavers Broken on an empty throne.

ORLANDO MAD.