In the poor hamlet where her grandsire died, Where sleeps her mother by the magnate's side, The orphan found a home. Her story known, Men's hearts allow the right men's laws disown. Though lost the birthright, and denied the name, Her pastor-grandsire's virtues shield from shame; Pity seeks kind pretext to pour its balms, And yields light toils that saves the pride from alms. A soft respect the orphan's steps attends, And the sharp thorn at least the rose defends. So flows o'ershadow'd, but not darksome by, Her life's lone stream--the banks admit the sky Day's quiet taskwork o'er, when Ev'ning grey Lists the last carol on the quivering spray, When lengthening shades reflect the distant hill, And the near spire, upon the lulled rill; Her sole delight with pensive step to glide Along the path that winds the wave beside, A moment pausing on the bridge, to mark Perchance the moonlight vista through the dark: Or watch the eddy where the wavelets play Round the chafed stone that checks their happy way, Then onward stealing, vanish from the view, Where the star shimmers on the solemn yew, As shade from earth and starlight from the sky Meet--and repose on Death's calm mystery. Moons pass'd--Behold the blossom on the spray! Hark to the linnet!--On the world is May! Green earth below and azure skies above; May calling life to joy, and youth to love; While Age, charm'd back to rosy hours awhile, Hears the lost vow, and sees the vanish'd smile. And does not May, lone Child, revive in thee, Blossom and bud and mystic melody; Does not the heart, like earth, imbibe the ray? Does not the year's recal thy life's sweet May? When like an altar to some happy bride, Shone all creation by the loved one's side? Yes, Exile, yes--_that_ Empire is thine own, Rove where thou wilt, awaits thee still thy throne! Lo, where the paling cheek, the unconscious sigh, The slower footstep, and the heavier eye, Betray the burthen of sweet thoughts and mute, The slight tree bows beneath the golden fruit!