Because he came between her and her fate, The Mere. She sighed again as one oppressed; The waters, shining clear, with delicate Reflections wavered on her blameless breast; And through the branches dropt, like flickerings fair, And played upon her hands and on her hair. And he, withdrawn a little space to see, Murmured in tender ruth that was not pain, "Farewell, I go; but sometimes think of me, Maid Margaret;" and there came by again A whispering in the reed-beds and the sway Of waters: then he turned and went his way. And wilt thou think on him now he is gone? No; thou wilt gaze: though thy young eyes grow dim, And thy soft cheek become all pale and wan, Still thou wilt gaze, and spend no thought on him; There is no sweetness in his laugh for thee--No beauty in his fresh heart's gayety. But wherefore linger in deserted haunts? Why of the past, as if yet present, sing? The yellow iris on the margin flaunts, With hyacinth the banks are blue in spring, And under dappled clouds the lark afloat Pours all the April-tide from her sweet throat. But Margaret--ah! thou art there no more, And thick dank moss creeps over thy gray stone Thy path is lost that skirted the low shore, With willow-grass and speedwell overgrown; Thine eye has closed for ever, and thine ear Drinks in no more the music of the Mere. The boy shall come--shall come again in spring, Well pleased that pastoral solitude to share, And some kind offering in his hand will bring To cast into thy lap, O maid most fair-- Some clasping gem about thy neck to rest, Or heave and glimmer on thy guileless breast. And he shall wonder why thou art not here The solitude with "smiles to entertain," And gaze along the reaches of the Mere; But he shall never see thy face again-- Shall never see upon the reedy shore Maid Margaret beneath her sycamore. II. MARGARET IN THE XEBEC. ["Concerning this man (Robert Delacour), little further is known than that he served in the king's army, and was wounded in the battle of Marston Moor, being then about twenty-seven years of age. After the battle of Nazeby, finding himself a marked man, he quitted the country, taking with him the child whom he had adopted; and he made many voyages between the different ports of the Mediterranean and Levant."] Resting within his tent at turn of day, A wailing voice his scanty sleep beset: He started up--it did not flee away-- 'Twas no part of his dream, but still did fret And pine into his heart, "Ah me! ah me!" Broken with heaving sobs right mournfully. Then he arose, and, troubled at this thing, All wearily toward the voice he went Over the down-trod bracken and the ling, Until it brought him to a soldier's tent, Where, with the tears upon her face, he found A little maiden weeping on the ground;