The fowler laid a cunning snare: The timid bird was fluttering there, And paused on half-suspended wing, To hear the subtle charmer sing; Close to the brink, with dizzy sense, She hung upon his eloquence; Lured by the magic of his eye, She quite forgot her power to fly, Till reeling, powerless with the spell, She lost her fragile hold and fell. The fowler saw his lovely spoil Entangled in the dazzling toil, A few frail threads of woven gauze, But deadly as the lion's jaws. Not till her golden wings were shorn, The timid bird escaped forlorn-- To soar with flocks of grosser mould, An alien from the heavenly fold, The timid bird, a human heart-- The snare, a smooth seducer's art-- How can my pitying pen rehearse The burden of its mournful verse, Since he who triumphed in his power To crush so meek and low a flower, Contemptuous spurned it from his path, To die a lone neglected death, And to the winds his bauble tost-- Left Alice Hill, betrayed and lost. And, Alice Hill, his haughty name Will never hide thy maiden shame-- And though he swear it on his life, Thou'lt never be Fitch Moreland's wife! "Farewell, my own, my waiting bride! Though I am wandering from thy side, And from these favourite haunts afar, I see thine eyes in every star, I hear thy voice in every breeze, That floats through summer's radiant trees; And thou shalt wear our bridal ring, And wear it as a holy thing, Till, to the sacred altar led, It be the seal by which we wed." Years rolled down Time's resistless tides Where Time, Eternity divides; Fitch Moreland, high in hall and state, Cared not that by the elm tree sate Poor Alice Hill, to reason lost, Like oarless bark on ocean tost; Not wildly crazed to tear her hair, But mute and sad, as if despair Had worn away life's tuneful strings, And sealed to Thought its gushing springs. But on that ring mute Alice Hill For ever looks, as if a thrill Of reason shot across her brain, And darted gleams of mental pain. Bold Winter lay on Moreland Vale. His bearded crown of ice and hail, And columns wreathed in feathery snow, How childhood dreams of glory show. Fast by these piles, on reeking steed, A post-boy checked his furious speed, And whispered to a gaping wight, "Fitch Moreland takes a wife to-night." Mute Alice Hill the echo caught,-- With stealthy steps the town she sought, That three leagues off in beauty lay Along Wamphassock's lovely bay-- With hair arranged and graceful dress, None would have dreamed such loveliness Concealed a heart to reason lost, Like oarless bark on ocean tost.