OF all that felt thy spell I envied one,
A youth whose sightless eyes were dimly turned
Where Tosca's soul with breathless passion burned,
Or thrilled with fury, agonized, undone.
He shrank, as dazzled by the gorgeous sun,
When from melodious words her love he learned,
And purest faith such rapture never earned
As his swift spirit from the darkness won.
But when the torture of a lover's wrongs
Roused all the fierceness of her fruitless rage,
He wrung his helpless hands with many a moan.
Ah, queen of passion! not to cheering throngs
You played that hour, but on a visioned stage,
Past mortal art, to one blind youth alone.
