IV.

As vines their tendrils curl round sturdy elms, As delicate flowers their heads bend to the sun, As ivy twines round oak in forest realms, As jasmine soft doth o’er the trellis run: So Isabel her soul doth throw upon Young Nial’s arm, reposing fearless there. His hero-heart her confidence hath won. So brave, so kind he looks that even Despair His presence flies, and blood less direful hues doth wear.