It was an English youth, with his fair brow,
And island colour. One eve, when the sound
Of music waked the spirit of delight,
From Inez' braided hair there fell a rose;
That night, that rose was treasured next a heart
Of which, henceforth, she was the destiny.
It needs not say how young affection sprung,
Gathered and grew in its sweet course; they hung,
Together, o'er the poet's breathing page,
Till their own eyes reflected every thought;
And both loved music, and love never yet
Had an interpreter like song.
But as the rose,
Even in the crimson zenith of its noon,
Flings on the ground its shadow,—even so
There is a shade attendant upon love.
And Inez was betrothed, in her own land,
To one she could not love—one whose dark brow
Suited his darker spirit.—One June eve,
Together they had read a traveller's tale
Of far America's majestic beauty,
Of its savannahs and its stately woods.
They read till the pale radiance of the west
Lighted the page no more; and, sighed the youth,
"How happy we might be in these wild scenes,—
A hunter I, and thou my gentle bride!
Far from the heartlessness of crowded court,
Where finest feelings are but as flowers sown
