With rosy palms against her bosom pressed,
To stay the shudder that she dreads of old,
Lysidice glides down, till silver-cold
The water girdles half her glowing breast:
A yellow butterfly in flowery quest
Rifles the roses that her tresses hold:
A breeze comes wandering through the fold on fold
Of draperies curtaining her shrine of rest.
Soft beauty, like her kindred petals strewed
Along the crystal coolness, there she lies.
What vision gratifies these gentle eyes?
She dreams she stands where yesterday she stood —
Where, while the whole arena shrieks for blood,
Hot in the sand a gladiator dies.