He plucked his poniard in its sheath,

But sheathed it ere the point was bare;

Howe'er unworthy now to breathe,

He could not slay a thing so fair— 110

At least, not smiling—sleeping—there—

Nay, more:—he did not wake her then,

But gazed upon her with a glance

Which, had she roused her from her trance,

Had frozen her sense to sleep again;

And o'er his brow the burning lamp

Gleamed on the dew-drops big and damp.

She spake no more—but still she slumbered—

While, in his thought, her days are numbered.