A Gothic church was near; the spot around Was beautiful, even though sepulchral ground; For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom, But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb. Amidst them one of spotless marble shone— A maiden’s grave—and ’twas inscribed thereon, That young and loved she died whose dust was there: “Yes,” said my comrade, “young she died, and fair! Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness played Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid: Her fingers witched the chords they passed along, And her lips seemed to kiss the soul in song: Yet wooed, and worshipped as she was, till few Aspired to hope, ’twas sadly, strangely true, That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burned And died of love that could not be returned. “Her father dwelt where yonder castle shines O’er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines. As gay as ever, the laburnum’s pride Waves o’er each walk where she was wont to glide,— And still the garden whence she graced her brow, As lovely blooms, though trod by strangers now. How oft from yonder window o’er the lake, Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake Has made the rudest fisher bend his ear, And rest enchanted on his oar to hear! Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland, Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land, Why had no gallant native youth the art To win so warm—so exquisite a heart? She, midst these rocks inspired with feelings strong By mountain-freedom—music—fancy—song, Herself descended from the brave in arms, And conscious of romance-inspiring charms, Dreamt of Heroic beings; hoped to find Some extant spirit of chivalric kind; And scorning wealth, looked cold e’en on the claim Of manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame.