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And, couched in Ellen’s bower,
I watched, beneath its latticed leaves,
Her coming, through a summer eve’s
Youngest and loveliest hour.

She came not—lonely was her home;
Herself of airy shapes “that come
Like shadows, so depart.”
Are there two Ellens of the mind?
Or have I lived at last to find
The Ellen of my heart?

For music, like Sir Walter’s, now
Rings round me, and again I bow
Before the shrine of song,
Devoutly as I bowed in youth;
For hearts that worship there, in truth
And joy, are ever young.

And dear the harp that sings to-day,
And well its gladdened strings obey
Its minstrel’s loved command—
A minstrel-maid’s, whose infant eyes
Looked on Ohio’s woods and skies,
My youth’s unheard-of land.

And beautiful that wreath she twines
Round Albi cottage bowered in vines,
Or blest in sleigh-bell mirth;