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III.
JUNE is coming, O, she’s coming! I glimpse upon the hill
The flutter of her rosy robes, I hear the rapture-rill
That bubbles from her laughing lips, I breathe the bloomy air
The happy breeze hath stolen from her tangled amber hair.
Oh, hasten, hasten, some of you! go forth and lead her round,
Let her not come this way and see the blood upon the ground,
Let not her fleckless dew-drenched feet, all violet-dripping, run
Across this black polluted spot where murder hath been done!
It is not fit that we should meet, I could not bear her eyes,
Wherein the joyous tenderness would film with sad surprise
And wistful sorry questioning if I were verily
The same who hitherto hath shared her innocence and glee !
