Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/115

Dim twilight o'er the landscape fell,
    Sad evening paced its tardy round,
Nor Christiern at his father's cell,
    Nor through the hamlet's range was found.

"'Tis but in sport,"—her neighbours cried,
    "The temper of your heart to prove."—
"Not thus, the sinking maid replied,
    Doth Christiern sport with trusting love."

Night came, but void of rest or sleep
    Move on its watches dark and slow,
Ulrica laid her down to weep
    In anguish of unutter'd wo.

How drear the gentle dawn appear'd!—
    How gloomy morning's rosy ray!
Nor tidings of her lover cheer'd
    The horrors of that lengthen'd day.

Weeks past away,—all search was vain,—
    Her smile of lingering hope was dead,
She shun'd the joyous village train,
    And from each rural pastime fled.

Time wrote his history on her brow!
    In characters of wo severe,
And furrows mark'd the ceaseless flow
    Of fearful sorrow's burning tear.

Years roll'd on years,—her friends decay'd,
    Her seventieth winter chill had flown,
A new and alter'd race survey'd
    The spectre stranger, sad and lone.