The dwelling of thy childhood, the dark hill
Above thy native valley, down whose side,
Like a swift arrow, shot the foaming stream,
The music of the lark, which every morn
Waked thy light slumber, and a fairy shape,
Whose starry eyes are far too bright for tears,
Tho' tears are in them, and whose coral lip
Wears still its spring-day smile? Altho' "Farewell,"
That saddest of sad sounds, is lingering there,
Are not these present to thee? . . . Evelin was
A soldier, and he left his home with all
The high romance of youth. Beloved, and well
His heart repaid that love; but there were clouds,
Low worldly clouds, upon affection's star:
He sought to clear them—what was toil, that led
To fame, to fortune, and Elizabeth! - - -
- - - There's music in that bower, where the wild rose
Has clung about the ash,—such plaining tones
As the winds waken: there a harp is breathing,
And o'er it leans its mistress, as she lived
Upon those melancholy sounds: her head
Is bent, as if in pain, upon those strings,
And the gold shadows of her long hair veil
The white hand which almost unconsciously
In melody is wandering: that fair hand
Is not more snowy than the cheek it presses;
That cheek does tell the history of the heart—
Tells, that across the bright May hours of youth
Bleak clouds have past, and left behind a trace
Bordering on sadness, but withal so sweet
You scarce might call it sorrow; and that smile
But speaks of patient mild endurance, soft
And kind and gentle thoughts, which well become
A breaking heart, whose throbs will soon be still
In the so lonely but so quiet grave.
Yes, she was dying! tho' so young, so fair,
Her days were number'd: and if e'er her cheek
Wore the rich colour it once had, 't was but
The sad and lovely herald of decay,
The death rose, that but blossoms on the tomb.
Her's was a heart which, when it once had loved,
Could but ill brook the many trembling fears
That absent love must know—her fate was like
