And Haidée met the morning face to face;

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush

Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race

From heart to cheek is curbed into a blush,

Like to a torrent which a mountain's base,

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush,

Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread;

Or the Red Sea—but the sea is not red.[154]