One day she came not; it was all in vain
That the young sculptor would have fix'd his thought
On the fair brow he traced—still like a chain
His anxiousuess prest round,—be fruitless sought
To still the sudden throbbing of each vein,
When the least sound upon his ear was brought:
This feverish restlessness, it is love's first
Of miseries, would to heaven it were its worst!
His heart was heavy—as an omen; all
His hopes seemed dead, restless he wandered long—
At last he paused by the cathedral wall
Whence came the burial anthem's mournful song:
He entered, and he saw the funeral pall;
His heart foreboded, how could it be wrong?
He raised the shroud—he knew that she was there;
And thence he turned away in black despair.
And still, in all the works of later years,
Is traced the influence of that early flame;
Sorrow and love might have passed with their tears,
But they had hallowed his heart, and Fame
But followed in their footsteps.
Iole.
