THE OMEN.
287
Pass a short space of dark cold days,
Of drear nights told by the pine-wood's blaze,
And the snow showers will melt into genial rain,
And the sunshine and she be back again.
And when she returns with her sweet guitar,
The song and the tale she has learn'd afar,
And caught the sweet sound to which once he clung,
The southern words of her mother's tongue,
With her soft cheek touch'd with a rosier dye,
And a clearer light in her deep dark eye,
He will not mourn that the winter hour
Has pass'd unfelt by his gentle flower.
It is Christmas-day—'tis her natal morn,
Away be all thoughts of sorrowing borne:
There is no prayer a vassal can frame
Will fail to-day, if breathed in her name;
