Months rolled away and still he grew, Beneath my care a lovely boy And day by day I found anew In him a very father’s joy.— And eighteen summers now have died Since thou cam’st here my own heart’s pride: And still thy voice of silver seems Sweet as sweet music heard in dreams; And still thy softly radiant eye Looks innocent as yonder sky, And all as fair—when rainbows rest Like angel-plumes upon its breast; And still thy soul seems richly set Within its form, like some bright gem Which might by worshippers be met In Purity’s own diadem. In Lorro’s hall the tone of lutes And harp is wafted through the air, Such as the glad most fitly suits When mirth and rosy wine are there. In Lorro’s castle, wreathed in light And flowers, I ween a holy rite, Most cherished with the young and bright, By cowlèd Priest, is done to-night. And who art thou around whose brow The bridal chaplet sparkled now? That form!—Oh, Heaven! and is it she Thus standing there so radiantly?— With bright curls floating on the air And glorious as the cherubs wear; An eye where love and virtue beam Like spirits of an Angel’s dream! Away! away! thou maddening sight! Away! what dost thou, Laura, here? Thus standing by my side to-night, And long since in thy sepulchre? What! will the grave its events tell? The iron tomb dissolve its spell? It has! it has! And there she stands Mocking me with her outstretched hands; And oft her icy fingers press My hot brow through the long, long night; And voices as of deep distress, Like prisoned wind, whose wailing sound Seems madly struggling under ground, Peal dirge-like on my ear: away! Nor wait, oh! horrid shape, for day Such as these gloomy realms display— E’er thou shalt quit my tortured sight.— And we were wed! I need not say How heavenly came and went each day, Enough! our souls together beat Like two sweet tunes that wandering meet, Then so harmoniously they run The hearer deems they are but one. There are mailed forms in Lorro’s halls, And rustling banners on its walls, And nodding plumes o’er many a brow, That moulders on the red field now. The wave of battle swells around! Shall Lorro’s chieftain thus be found In revelry or idlesse bound, When Glory hangs her blood-red sign Above the castellated Rhine? Away! away, I flew in pride With those who mustered by my side: But not, I ween, did Lorro miss The ruler from its ducal throne, ’Till many a wild and burning kiss Of woman’s sweet lips warmed his own. And Julio, too, (for such the name I gave the orphan boy,) with tears And choking sob, and trembling came To whisper me his rising fears.