He came--admired the pure and peaceful scene, And offer'd money for our humble cot. Oh! justly burn'd my father's cheek, I ween, "His sires by honest toil the dwelling got; _Their_ home was not for sale." It matters not How, after that, Lord Arthur won my love. He smiled contemptuous on my humble lot, Yet left no means untried my heart to move, And call'd to witness _his_ the glorious heavens above. Oh! dimmed are now the eyes he used to praise, Sad is the laughing brow where hope was beaming, The cheek that blushed at his impassioned gaze Wan as the waters where the moon is gleaming; For many a tear of sorrow hath been streaming Down the changed face, which knew no care before; And my sad heart, awakened from its dreaming, Recalls those days of joy, untimely o'er, And mourns remembered bliss, which can return no more. It was upon a gentle summer's eve, When Nature lay all silently at rest-- When none but I could find a cause to grieve, I sought in vain to soothe my troubled breast, And wander'd forth alone, for well I guess'd That Arthur would be lingering in the bower Which oft with summer garlands I had drest; Where blamelessly I spent full many an hour Ere yet I felt or love's or sin's remorseless power. No joyful step to welcome me was there; For slumber had her transient blessing sent To him I loved--the still and balmy air, The blue and quiet sky, repose had lent, Deep as her own--above that form I bent, The rich and clustering curls I gently raised, And, trembling, kissed his brow--I turned and went-- Softly I stole away, nor, lingering, gazed; Fearful and wondering still, at my own deed amazed. Her first pangs of sorrow at quitting home: "Oh, Arthur! stay"--he turned, and all was o'er-- My sorrow, my repentance--all was vain-- I dreamt the dream of life and love once more, To wake to sad reality of pain. He spoke, but to my ear no sound was plain, Until the little wicket-gate we passed-- _That sound of home_ I never heard again, And then "drive on--drive faster--yet more fast." I raised my weeping head--Oh! I had looked my last. One of those precious moments in which remorse overtakes the victims of crime, is thus finely drawn: Months passed: one evening, as of early days, When first my bosom thrilled _his_ voice to hear, And thought upon the gentle words of praise Which forced my lips to smile, and chased my fear: I sang--a sob, deep, single, struck my ear; Wondering, I gazed on Arthur, bending low-- His features were concealed, but many a tea, Quick gushing forth, continued fast to flow, Stood where they fell, then sank like dew-drops on the snow.