HAVE caught the last wave of his snow-white plume,
How fast to-night closes the evening gloom!

I have heard the last sound of his horse's feet,-
Oh, wind! once more the echo repeat.

I should not weep thus if thou wert gone
Away to the battle as oft thou hast done;

204

THE FORSAKEN.

Or if I wept, my tears would be
But voiceless orisons for thee.

Thou wert wont to part, my scarf on thine arm,
My last kiss laid on thy lips like a charm ;

I could pray, and believe that thy maiden's prayer
Would be with thee in battle, and guard thee there.

But now thou art gone to the festival,
To the crowded city, the lighted hall;

In the courtly beauty's shining bower

Little thou'lt think of thine own wild flower.

Thou wilt join in the midnight saraband,

With thy graceful smile and thy whisper bland;
And to many another thou wilt be

All thou once wert to only me.

I might have known what would be my share-
Silent suffering and secret care;

I might have known my woman's part

A faded cheek and a rifled heart.

Often I'd read in the minstrel tale

How bright eyes grow dim, and red lips pale;
Of the tears that wail the fond maiden's lot ;-
But I loved thee, and all but my love forgot.

And must this be?-oh, heart of mine!
Why art thou not too proud to pine?

Again I will wreathe my raven hair

With the red-rose flowers it was wont to wear;

THE FORSAKEN.

Again I will enter my father's hall

Again be the gayest and gladdest of all;

Like the falcon that soars at her highest bound,
Though her bosom bear in it its red death-wound!

But what boots it to teach my heart a task
So vain as weeping behind a mask:-

Broken, with only ruins to hide,
Little it recks of the show of pride.

Will a smile bring back to my lip its red,
Or the azure light from my blue eye fled—
Efface from the faded brow and cheek
The tale that tells my heart must break?

No! I will away to my solitude,

And hang my head in my darkened mood;
Passing away, with a silent sigh,

Unknown, unwept,-and thus will I die!

Farewell! farewell! I have but one prayer-
That no thought may haunt thee of my despair;
Be my memory to thee a pleasant thing,-
An odour that came and passed with thy spring.

Forget me; I would not have thee know

Of the youth and bloom thy falseness laid low;
That the green grass grows, the cypresses wave,
And the death-stone lies on thy once love's grave!

L. E. L.

205