"Behold!" and Morna turned to gaze Upon the huge tree, dark and lone, The withered finger of the crone Marked out, and glancing in the rays Of morn, beheld a serpent coil Its glossy length, with easy toil, Up the brown trunk, till close it hung Above the wild bird's nest and young; While round and round, with scream of dread, The frighted bird in anguish fled; And vainly sought to drive the foe From his dark aim again below. XI. Moments there are when Reason's control, Yieldeth to Fancy in heart and soul; When the spirit views with prescient eye, The common light and shaded sky, An omen finds in the falling leaf, And symbols in all things of joy or grief. And this was one, for on that failing strife Had Morna cast her dearest hope in life. Must she behold with power as vain to shield, Earth's only blessing from her presence torn? Was there a fiercer pang for her revealed In that short conflict than she yet had known? Her dark eyes grew more wildly bright, And gleamed with an intenser light, As closer drew the venomed fang, And shrill the lone bird's accents rang. But, hark! a shot--a rustling fall-- Approaching steps--a sportman's call-- The parent bird is in the dust; And o'er the path that homeward led, With fleeting step fair Morna fled, And breathed a prayer of thanks and trust. Though sweet to live, more blest to die, For those that strong affections tie Has fettered to the clinging heart, With links not Death can wholly part. XII.