LUCY; OR, THE MASKED BALL.

89

While the breeze scarcely breathed a sigh

As it kissed the flowers in passing by,

Stealing the odours of their breath

For incense to the sleeping earth:

For Nature lay in balmy rest

Soft as babe's on a mother's breast;

And all on earth, in air, in sky,

Seemed tuned to perfect harmony.

Such was the night when Lucy took

A last and melancholy look

Of her loved vale. Can words impart

The conflict of the bursting heart,

When, to the spot our childhood knew

And loved, we bid a first adieu?

Where path, and bank, and stile, and tree

Have witnessed our felicity,

And seem as friends, who still should share

Our bosom's pleasures and its care ?

'Tis vain!—Say we, that Lucy's mind,

Yet scarcely to her fate resign'd,

That deep affliction keenly felt

As on the past it fondly dwelt.

Her arms were round her husband flung,

And, weeping, on his neck she hung.