that thou lovest me; for soon as I set eyes on thee my

Is there no hope from thee? This horrid spell

Would melt at thy sweet breath.- By Dian's hind

Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind

I see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan,

I care not for this old mysterious man!"

He spake, and walking to that aged form,

Look'd high defiance. Lo! his heart 'gan warm

With pity, for the grey-hair'd creature wept.