"Clear, fresh, and dulcet streams, Which the fair shape, who seems To me sole woman, haunted at noontide; Fair bough, so gently fit, (I sigh to think of it), Which lent a pillar to her lovely side; And turf, and flowers bright-eyed, O'er which her folded gown Flow'd like an angel's down; And you, O holy air and hushed, Where first my heart at her sweet glances gushed: Give ear, give ear, with one consenting, To my last words, my last and my lamenting. * * * * * "How well I call to mind, When from those boughs the wind Shook down upon her bosom flower on flower; And there she sat, meek-eyed, In midst of all that pride, Sprinkled and blushing through an amorous shower Some to her hair paid dower, And seemed to dress the curls, Queenlike, with gold and pearls; Some, snowing, on her drapery stopped, Some on the earth, some on the water dropped; While others, fluttering from above, Seemed wheeling round in pomp, and saying, 'Here reigns Love.' How often then I said, Inward, and filled with dread, 'Doubtless this creature came from Paradise!' For at her look the while, Her voice, and her sweet smile, And heavenly air, truth parted from mine eyes; So that, with long-drawn sighs, I said, as far from men, 'How came I here, and when?' I had forgotten; and alas! Fancied myself in heaven, not where I was; And from that time till this, I bear Such love for the green bower, I cannot rest elsewhere." Leigh Hunt. Yet, in spite of all her beauty, he is not happy; the thought of her never leaves him. When absent from her he is most miserable: "Never was bird, spoiled of its young, more sad, Nor wild beast in his lair more lone than me, Now that no more that lovely face I see, The only sun my fond eyes ever had. In ceaseless sorrow is my chief delight: My food to poison turns, to grief my joy; The night is torture, dark the clearest sky, And my lone pillow a hard field of fight. Sleep is indeed, as has been well expressed, Akin to death, for it the heart removes From the dear thought in which alone I live. Land above all with plenty, beauty blessed! Ye flowery plains, green banks, and shady groves! Ye hold the treasure for whose loss I grieve!" Macgregor. Above all, his torment is increased by the contest between his religious feelings and his love, which, earthly as it was, seemed to be inconsistent with his duty as a Christian. Yet he cannot tear his heart away from the object of his affection. Hence arises a constant warring of the flesh against the spirit, and a vacillation which finds expression in sentiments diametrically opposite. Thus at times he declares that his love for Laura is a blessing to him, leading him to a virtuous and religious life: