114
By the Fireside.
She could no more,—the blind girl, weak and weary!
A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,
“ What wouldst thou do, my daughter?”—and she started;
And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted;
But Paul, impatient, urges ever more
Her steps towards the open door;
And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal,
And with her head, as Paul talks on again,
Touches the crown of filigrane
Suspended from the low-arched portal,
No more restrained, no more afraid,
She walks, as for a feast arrayed,
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night
They both are lost to sight.
A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,
“ What wouldst thou do, my daughter?”—and she started;
And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted;
But Paul, impatient, urges ever more
Her steps towards the open door;
And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal,
And with her head, as Paul talks on again,
Touches the crown of filigrane
Suspended from the low-arched portal,
No more restrained, no more afraid,
She walks, as for a feast arrayed,
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night
They both are lost to sight.
At length the bell,
With booming sound,
With booming sound,
