And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard,

To see skull, coffin'd bones, and funeral stole ;

Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd,

And filling it once more with human soul?

Ah! this is holiday to what was felt When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt.

She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, as though

One glance did fully all its secrets tell; Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know

Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well; Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow,

Like to a native lily of the dell : Then with her knife, all sudden, she began To dig more fervently than misers can. Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon

Hersilk had play'd in purple phantasies, She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone,

And put it in her bosom, where it dries And freezes utterly unto the bone Those dainties made to still an infant's cries:

Then 'gan she work again; nor stay'd her care,

But to throw back at times her veiling hair.