Yet still the scene his soul beguiled, A look, unutterably wild, On EDMUND as they pass'd. All on the ground entranced he lay; That moment through a rifted cloud, Her dusky veil aside she drew, -66 My Love! my ELLA!" EDMUND flew, And clasp'd the yielding air. "Ha! who art thou?" His cheek grew pale; 66 A well-known voice replied, ELLA, the lily of the vale; To win his neck her airy arms To shun the visionary maid, His speed outstript the wind; But, though unseen to move,—the shade SO DEATH'S unerring arrows glide, Yet seem suspended still; Nor pause, nor shrink, nor turn aside, O'er many a mountain, moor, and vale, The ghost of ELLA, wild and pale, But when the dawn began to gleam, Three days, bewilder'd and forlorn, "T'was evening;-all the air was balm, The heavens serenely clear; When the soft music of a psalm Came pensive o'er his ear. Then sunk his heart;-a strange surmise Made all his blood run cold: He flew, a funeral met his eyes: -a death-bell toll'd. He paused, "'Tis she! 'tis she!"-He bursts away; And bending o'er the spot Where all that once was ELLA lay, He all beside forgot. A maniac now, in dumb despair, He wanders, weeps, and watches there, And every Eve of pale St. MARK, He walks with ELLA in the dark, HANNAH. AT fond sixteen my roving heart Was pierced by Love's delightful dart : Keen transport throbb'd through every vein, -I never felt so sweet a pain! Where circling woods embower'd the glade, I stole her hand,—it shrunk,—but no; With all the fervency of youth, Not with a warmer, purer ray, But, swifter than the frighted dove, The angel of Affliction rose, Yet, in the glory of my pride, I stood, and all his wrath defied; I stood, though whirlwinds shook my brain, And lightnings cleft my soul in twain. I shunn'd my nymph;—and knew not why I shunn'd her, for I could not bear Yet, sick at heart with hope delay'd, The storm blew o'er, and in my breast "Twas on the merry morn of May, Then as I climb'd the mountains o'er, I saw the village steeple rise, My I reach'd the hamlet :—all was gay; I met a wedding,-stepp'd aside; -There is a grief that cannot feel; It leaves a wound that will not heal; -My heart grew cold, it felt not then; When shall it cease to feel again? A FIELD FLOWER. ON FINDING ONE IN FULL BLOOM, ON CHRISTMAS DAY, THERE is a flower, a little flower, The prouder beauties of the field In gay but quick succession shine, But this small flower, to Nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charms, The purple heath and golden broom But this bold floweret climbs the hill, Within the garden's cultured round 1803. |