The heir of Rookwood.
239
Along the bridle-paths—reins dropped and arms
Folded in thought—or in a voice whose cadence
Silvered the roughest measures, read aloud
Ballad or romance writ in sweet old French;
That quaint old French-once married to our English,
Rude spelt, and garnished with "Ma foys" and "Pardys;"
Perchance to" , dream,—an arm: flung o'er his eyelids
While Lilia touched the organ, and without
Twilight grew dark and. rose the evening star.
Adding her silver splendours to the night—
Was life enough for Arthur.
June was over.
When did I first miss Lilia from my side?
Thoughts she was wont to scatter wandered now
As wildly in her absence. Everywhere,
Within doors and without, a vague discomfort
Haunted my steps. And where was idle Lilia?
Why, loitering down the walks at Arthur's side,
Why, riding his black hunter, on the lawn,
Feeding his hound with biscuit, reading rhymes
At Arthur's side in the deep library window.
So answered Ernestine, and drooped her head
Folded in thought—or in a voice whose cadence
Silvered the roughest measures, read aloud
Ballad or romance writ in sweet old French;
That quaint old French-once married to our English,
Rude spelt, and garnished with "Ma foys" and "Pardys;"
Perchance to" , dream,—an arm: flung o'er his eyelids
While Lilia touched the organ, and without
Twilight grew dark and. rose the evening star.
Adding her silver splendours to the night—
Was life enough for Arthur.
June was over.
When did I first miss Lilia from my side?
Thoughts she was wont to scatter wandered now
As wildly in her absence. Everywhere,
Within doors and without, a vague discomfort
Haunted my steps. And where was idle Lilia?
Why, loitering down the walks at Arthur's side,
Why, riding his black hunter, on the lawn,
Feeding his hound with biscuit, reading rhymes
At Arthur's side in the deep library window.
So answered Ernestine, and drooped her head
