Stole back, the scenery of her solitude:
An aged father, in his cabin rude,
Mix'd with her dreams a melancholy moan,
Notching his simple calendar with pain,
And straining his red eye to watch the misty main.
XLIV.
With its grey banner, or red day declined,
Up went his name, for ever blent with those
Most close and strong around her soul entwined,
Husband and child; and, as the time drew near
To fold him to her heart with filial tear,
For her first home, her warm affections pined.
That time,—it came not! for a viewless hand
Was stretch'd to bar her foot from her green childhood's land.
XLV.
The crystal streams, her playmates, far away,
Oft, oft, their dulcet music mock'd her ear,
As, restless, on her fever'd couch she lay;
Strange visions hover'd round, and harpings high,
From spirit-bands, and then her lustrous eye
Welcom'd the call; but earth resumed its sway,
And all its sacred ties convulsive twined.
How hard to spread the wing, and leave the loved behind.
