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THE GUERILLA CHIEF.
Of pigeons, like the snow, were on the roof
Nestled together; and a plaining sound
Came from a fountain murmuring through the wood,
Less like the voice of sorrow than of love:
Tall trees were gathered round—the dark-green beech;
The sycamore, with scarlet colours on,
The herald of the autumn; dwarf rose-trees,
Covered with their last wealth; the poplar tall,
A silver spire; olives with their pale leaves;
And some most graceful shrubs, amid whose boughs
Were golden oranges; and hollow oaks,
Where the bees built their honey palaces.
It was a silent and a lovely place,
Where Peace might rest her white wings. But one came
From out the cottage,—not as one who comes
To gaze upon the beauty of the sky
