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E'en winter softens into sunny spring;—
But thou, pale melancholy season! thou
Alone departest in thine hour of wrath?
XIV.
How chang'd the scene from what it once had been!
Now loneliness hung o'er it like a cloud!
The myrtle bower they'd twin'd so gracefully,
No trace of it was left; and that white rose,
That wreath'd so fondly round the blasted pine,
Was gone—the tree stood now quite desolate.
Beneath, half-hidden by the briars round,
And green with moss, there was a broken harp:
Time had been, when those now so silent chords
Were sweet as hope's soft prophecy of love;
Now his heart died within him, as the breeze
Waked, faintly wak'd, the few remaining strings.
