Damp with the dews of sleep, a smooth white hand.
"Would he were mine, my lord," she said, and sigh'd.
"Thou could'st not love him better, Isador,"
The father answered, smiling in his heart,
That Tristram's life lackt not a mother's love.
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But on the morrow from its place she took
The chalice, curiously worked: without
A kneeling Hebe and a bending Jove
To take the drink; and beaten gold within, -
A relic of the days of Roman rule:
And from the flagon she poured the ruby wine
To the brim, and from her delicate fingers dropt
An evanescent dust that sifted thro'
The bubbling wine, and made it no less sweet.
"There let death cool his thirst!" she cried, and past.
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