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THE MOUNTAIN MAID.
I heard the lark at break of day,
I heard the echoes ring;
A lonely maid, and blithe as they—
What could I do but sing?
But neither lark nor echoes stopped
To listen to my song,
And sometimes into silence dropped—
What could I do but long?
And then one stepping lightly past
Called me his singing dove;
With him to please, the days sped fast—
What could I do but love?
And then! He wearied of my song
And lightly passed me by.
So, left alone to love and long—
What could I do but die?
