XXVII.

Vain his long gallop, vain his bird-like speed, Vain every turn and venture far and near. Sad, sad grew Nial’s heart, and ’gan to bleed, While from his eye fell many a bitter tear. O’er leagues of mountain heath did nought appear, Save his own shadow and his steed’s i’ the Moon Reflected long and dreary as the year It seemed since he had parted, vowing soon To meet, from Isabel thus lost in Beauty’s noon!