126
CRUCE AND CORONA.
Like that of inspiration; and his soulSoars upward into realms of thought where oftHis soul hath traversed in life's bygone years.
Crucè is seated too within the bow'r;And when Corona thus her questions asks,And thus the old man unto them replies,The volume in her hand is closed; her eyesWith brighter luster glow; and o'er them oftThe shadow of mysterious sadness comes,That in her childhood's now fast-fleeting days,When happy home and kindly hearts are hers,Is still the same, unless still deeper grown,As that which touched the chords of sympathyIn hearts of those who thronged the island shoreWhen she a stranger to that island came.
This aged man upon this island fairHath dwelt for many years. But whence he came,Or wherefore thither, few that know or ask.He dwells alone, within a little cotAmong majestic steeps of moss-grown rocks,In solitude his life hath mostly passed;But there is not a home upon this isleWhere sorrow deep or some great joy hath come,But there he comes to weep with those who weepOr joy in others' joy.
