part of a supporting pillar to the door of the chamber through which she had passed, caught her eye, and filled her breast with inexpressible surprise.
the lines.
Midst grass-grown courts, the "ivy mantled tower,"
Where legends say afflicted spirits mourn
O'er the sad records of departed power,—
I restless watch for dewy eve's return:
For then the chantress of the woodland vale
Awakes the echoes of the dreary pile,
With sounds that o'er my tortur'd soul prevail,
And all its cares and agonies beguile.
The evening star, the pale moon's silver ray,
I raptur'd hail, that gives her to my gaze:
Her form, her smile, harmonious as her lay,—
The mild expression of her angel face.
Should this weak record of ill-fated love
E'er meet her eye,—ah, may one tender tear
Be shed for him, whom fate forbade to prove
His ardent passion or his truth sincere!
Ah! may she pity then, compassion is his claim,
'Tis all he dares to ask—'Tis all he hopes to gain.
