The day wore on, and down the West, The sun had rolled in his unrest; While gorgeous clouds of gold and red, Reflected back the splendor fled; And twilight--pensive nun, to pray, In silence drew her veil of gray. The last bright gleam was waxing pale, And low night winds began their wail, When near a ruined house, that stood Within a grove of tulip wood, Young Lennard paused and gazed awhile, With clouded brow and saddened smile, On trampled flowers, and shrubs, and vine, Torn from the pillar it would twine With verdant bloom, and casting round Its scarlet blossoms on the ground. A waste of weeds the garden lay, And grass grew in the carriage way; Cold desolation, like a pall, Had spread its mantle over all; Yet not the creeping touch of Time, Had wrecked that dwelling in its prime. The fierce and unrelenting wrath Of human war had crossed that path, And left its trace on all things near, Save the blue sky above our sphere. Anon, with hurried step and free, He crossed the ruined balcony, And passing by the fallen door, Stood on the dark hall's oaken floor. Lighting the pine-torch that he bore, He watched its lurid beams explore The gloomy precincts, and passed on, As one who knew each winding well, To a low room that lay beyond, And echoed to the south wind's knell. Upon the threshold crushed and lone, By rude marauder's hand o'erthrown, The holy volume lay; He raised it from its station there, And smoothed the crumpled leaves with care, Then sadly turned away To gaze upon a portrait near, Whose thoughtful eyes, so calm and clear, And chastened look and lofty mien, And forehead noble and serene, Told of a spirit touched by time Only to soften and sublime; Of woman's earnest faith and love Surmounting earth to soar above. XIII. With quivering lip the boy gazed long; Unheeded and unmarked a throng Might there have met, so fixed his soul On Memory's unfolding scroll. He knew not that the hours crept by, And sullen grew the deepening night; Again he met his mother's eye, As erst in joyous days and bright, And heard the accents clear and mild, Now hushed in death, breathe o'er her child A fervent blessing and a prayer; Again his father's silver hair Gleamed on his sight, although the tomb Had closed him in its rayless gloom. XIV. His leathern cap aside was flung, And o'er his brow the dark locks hung In wild confusion, as he stood Amid that haunted solitude, Raising the blazing torch to throw Upon the pictured face its glow. In him a careless eye might see A semblance of that face in life; With more of fire and energy To brave the storm and strife; With more of earthly hope to claim, And less of Heaven--yet still the same. XV.