But hush--in low sad strains the music dies,
Low at her feet a wealth of flowers lies;
She smiles--the world's bright fame is clearly won,
Along her veins the quickened fires now run;
Her dark eyes flash--Oh! fame, thou art divine!
Into her heart, like streams of blood-red wine,
The world's sweet homage flows; a deepening strain
Of crimson plays upon her face. Oh! fame,
Fear not, for she is thine; within thy flame
Her soul enraptured burns--and love's sad pain
Is all forgotten in this brilliant hour
That proves too well her strange and gifted power.

But see! still deeper grows the crimson glow
Upon her face, for at her feet a crown
Is thrown of royal roses; bending down
She sees in star-gemmed flowers of purest snow
The word "Arline" amid the diadem
Of circling red; and in their midst a gem
That sparkles with a strange intensive light.
She smiles--a smile that rouses all the fire
In one young heart; with quick and eager flight
His eyes seek hers; unto her face still higher
The warm blood flows beneath that ling'ring gaze.
Her drooping eyes grow liquid with the rays
Of light within their depths; the rippling hair,
With burnished hues of brown and amber rare,
Falls o'er the shaded brow; while sweeping low,
The long, dark lashes hide the deepening glow
In downcast eyes.