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    When one sought, at that darksome hour,
    The refuge of their lonely bower,
    A hunter, who, amid the shade,
    Had from his own companions stray'd.
    And Elenore gazed on his face,
    And knew her father! In the chase
    Often the royal mourner sought
    A refuge from his one sad thought.
    He knew her not,—the lowly mien,
    The simple garb of forest green,
    The darken'd brow, which told the spoil
    The sun stole from her daily toil,
    The cheek where woodland health had shed
    The freshness of its morning red,—
    All was so changed. She spread the board,
    Her hand the sparkling wine cup pour'd;