There is sadness on thy thoughtful lip, and shadow on thy brow,
Thou "delicate Ionian," what art thou dreaming now?
Fair gifts are flung around thee—the chain, the flower, the gem—
Dost thou think of him who gave the gifts, or only but of them?
But no; thou hast too pale a cheek, and far too tranquil eye
For a dream of love or vanity, to be that passing by.
Thou art thinking of thy childish days, and of thy childish home,
When thy step was as the mountain-roe, as fleet, as free to roam;
When the air around was musical with thine own happy song;
When summer leaves were overhead, and summer days were long.
Bride of a stately warrior, whose heart is as thy shrine,
Who pours the wealth of east and west to win a smile of thine;
Bride, too, of him thou lovest!—yet tears are in thine eyes,
For memory of thy native earth, and of thy native skies.
H3
