’Twas on the outskirts of a wood— A wood of tall and aged trees, That gave a charm to solitude, A murmur to the breeze; ’Twas when frequent falls the leaf, And we begin to say that brief And briefer grows the day; When, far away, the evening sky Looks sad and sober to the eye; When darker grows the rivulet, Where, in some tiny eddy’s play, The fallen leaves so fitful fret, Like Hope, when we would hold it yet, And it would fain be far away. How beautiful the beechen tree! A beechen tree of giant mould, Whose roots did many a rock unfold. Entwining them, as you might see: For, branching from the parent stem, A velvet moss just covered them; They sought the nurture of the brook That from its shade a deep green took, And murmur’d like the lullaby Of cradle-watchers, when they look Upon the infant’s closing eye. Forth stepping like the timid deer, And hearing her own step with fear, On came a gentle maid; She crosses o’er the rivulet: Her silken slipper is not wet— Why should she be afraid? She seems spell-bound, and yet seems not; If fearful thus, why seek the spot? Why stops she by the tree? We have volition where to go, And we may wander to and fro, Yet, we may not be free— For Love, though all unseen his chain, Will draw us over land and main; And though we meet as far between As winter wild from summer green, Yet Love, like Heaven, will be above The hearts that truly vow to love. With step, e’en as the maiden’s, light, But not a step that e’er knew fright, Comes one with love-lit look; He clasps her with his arms around, As is yon water lily bound By the encircling brook, And as it palely droops to hear The music of the whispering water, She listens with a charmed fear, Bound by the spell which there has brought her The while her fair brow bends and beams Like that pale flower that loves the streams. How to his heart he holds the flower! “O! ever blessed be the hour Which brings thee, Helen, to my side. Our friends would frown, I know, my bird If but our slightest word were heard; But, oh! thou yet wilt be my bride— For though we meet here but to part, ’Tis not with a divided heart; Thou wert the soonest here to-day, But no neglect kept me away; I know this hour—I know no more— The rest are but to tell it o’er.”