With volumed smoke that slowly grew

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To one wide sky of sulphurous hue.

VII.

But not for vengeance, long delayed,

Alone, did Alp, the renegade,

In happier mood, and earlier time,

While unimpeached for traitorous crime,

Had young Francesca's hand remained

Still by the church's bonds unchained :

And when the Adriatic bore

Lanciotto to the Paynim shore,

Her wonted smiles were seen to fail,

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And pensive waxed the maid and pale;

More constant at confessional,

More rare at masque and festival;

The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn,"

Who hold the thought of death in scorn,
And win their way with falchions' force,

Or pave

the path with

many a corse,

O'er which the following brave may rise,

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Their stepping-stone-the last who dies!

XI.

"Tis midnight: on the mountain's brown

The cold, round moon shines deeply down;