The maiden paced the gallery, and wept;
She thought how each familiar voice was mute,
How she had watched, day after day, the rose
Wasting its colours in a hectic flush,
Till it grew pale for ever—how those eyes,
The blue, the bright, were closed in their long sleep.
Of those sweet sisters she was now the last.
She thought o'er instances of daily love,
That rise so bitterly to memory
When the dark grave has shut out all return
Of hopes which they had mingled,—tears they shed,
But pleasant ones, together—laughing schemes
Of festival, snatches of favourite songs
Now never sung.—"There surely is a curse
Upon our house, that thus the young should die—
Alas, my sisters!"—Heavily the tears
Fell from the desolate girl: she turned to where
The open casement brought the summer wind,
As if to soothe her:—green the park beneath
Girdled its own bright river, and the deer
Had gathered on its banks—the ancient oaks
Waved their Ionian foliage—in each copse
The hawthorn was in blossom—and the limes,
Hung with pale yellow flowers, filled the air
As if with incense. Suddenly a horn
Rung from the old dark avenue of beech—
A white steed came in sight—it cleared the lawn
As if its speed were in its rider's will—
That graceful rider—o’er his glossy hair
The white plumes waved, like his own spirit’s light;
The falcon on his wrist had not an eye
More flashing in its brightness:—as he past,
He plucked a handful of the hawthorn flowers,
And flung them to his sister. "Emily,
Come, for my hunter's toil is done, and now
I’ll play the poet with thy lute and thee;
Come, for already has the young pale moon
Risen, though colourless, by yon bright west;
Come, for I must not have one fall of dew
Unloose thy curls." A pang shot through her heart:
