XIV.

Long Carlos fluttering lay ’twixt life and death, But what could Isidora’s balm exclude, Her dewy fingers’ pressure, violet breath, Her tender care, and sweet solicitude? And day by day his growing cure she viewed Spring ’neath her hand like rarest, frailest flower, Till the fresh hues of health again exude Through every pore, and young love’s blooming dower Glows o’er his rounded cheek, like rose for Beauty’s bower.