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THE WELCOME.
219
IX.
She gazes on the distance,
Until her eyes are dim,
And not a cloud that passes
But she believes it him.
X.
Night after night, her vigils
Have worn away her bloom;
How often has she started
Beside a fancied tomb!
XI.
There is no love like woman's,—
By distance made more dear;
That grows more true and tender
With every falling tear.
XII.
She is pale with joy—she sees him!
The warrior-chief is come!
She looks—she cannot speak it—
"Lord Ulric, welcome home!"
