THE LAST OF THE ST. AUBYNS.
And here they met:—where should Love's meeting be—
Love passionate, and spiritual, and deep—
Where, but in such a haunted solitude—
A green and natural temple—fitting shrine
For vows the stars remember? Much the heart
Is govern'd by such outward impulses.
The love whose birth has been in lighted halls,
That lives on festival and flattery,
Like them is vain and selfish; but the love
Whose voice has caught from twilight winds their tone,
And gazed alternately on the deep blue
Of heaven, and that in one dear maiden's eyes,
Is e'en as those divinities of old,
Whose beauty was a dream of early flowers,
Of lonely fountains, and of summer nights—
Poetry and religion blent in one.
In a fair garden did these lovers meet;
The elm made leafy arches overhead,
And every sudden breeze that moved the boughs
