’Tis eve: how that rich sunlight streameth through The unwoven arches of this sylvan roof! How their long, lustrous lines of light illume, With trembling radiance, all the agèd boles Of elms majestic as the lofty columns That proudly rear their tall forms to the dome Of old cathedral or imperial palace! Yea, they are grander than the mightiest shafts That e’er by hand of man were fashioned forth Their holy, solemn temples to uphold; And sweeter far than the harmonious peals Of choral thunder, that in music roll Through vaulted isles, are the low forest sounds Murmuring around: of wind and stirrèd leaf, And warbled song of nightingale or lark Whose swelling cadences and dying falls And whelming gushes of rich melody Attune to meditation, all serene, The weary spirit; and draw forth still thoughts Of happy scenes half veilèd by the mists Of bygone times. Yea, that calm influence Hath soothed the billowy troubles of my heart Till scarce one sad thought rises, though I sit Beneath these trees, utterly desolate. But no, not utterly, for still one friend I fain would hope remains to brighten yet My mournful journey through this vale of tears; And, while he shines, all other, lesser lights May wane and fade unnoticed from the sky. But more than friend, e’en he can never be: [_Heaves a deep sigh._ That thought is sorrowful, but yet I’ll hope. What is my rival? Nought but a weak girl, Ungifted with the state and majesty That mark superior minds. Her eyes gleam not Like windows to a soul of loftiness; She hath not raven locks that lightly wave Over a brow whose calm placidity Might emulate the white and polished marble. [_A white dove flutters by._ Ha! what art thou, fair creature? It hath vanished Down that long vista of low-drooping trees. How gracefully its pinions waved! Methinks It was the spirit of this solitude. List! I hear footsteps; and the rustling leaves Proclaim the approach of some corporeal being. [_A young girl advances up the vista, dressed in green, with a garland of flowers wreathed in the curls of her hazel hair. She comes towards_ LADY ZENOBIA, _and says_: GIRL. Lady, methinks I erst have seen thy face. Art thou not that Zenobia, she whose name Renown hath come e’en to this fair retreat? LADY ELLRINGTON. Aye, maiden, thou hast rightly guessed. But how Didst recognise me?