360 Thou, dim cloud, That from the search of men these beauteous vales Hast closed, oh, doubly veil them! But alas, How short the dream of human transport! Here, In vain they built the leafy bower of love, Or culled the sweetest flowers and fairest fruit.
The hours unheeded stole! but ah, not long-- Again the hollow tempest of the night Sounds through the leaves; the inmost woods resound; Slow comes the dawn, but neither ship nor sail 370 Along the rocking of the windy waste Is seen: the dash of the dark-heaving wave Alone is heard.

Start from your bed of bliss, Poor victims! never more shall ye behold Your native vales again; and thou, sweet child! Who, listening to the voice of love, hast left Thy friends, thy country,--oh, may the wan hue Of pining memory, the sunk cheek, the eye Where tenderness yet dwells, atone (if love Atonement need, by cruelty and wrong 380 Beset), atone ev'n now thy rash resolves! Ah, fruitless hope! Day after day, thy bloom Fades, and the tender lustre of thy eye Is dimmed: thy form, amid creation, seems The only drooping thing.
Thy look was soft, And yet most animated, and thy step Light as the roe's upon the mountains.

Now, Thou sittest hopeless, pale, beneath the tree That fanned its joyous leaves above thy head, 390 Where love had decked the blooming bower, and strewn The sweets of summer: DEATH is on thy cheek, And thy chill hand the pressure scarce returns Of him, who, agonised and hopeless, hangs With tears and trembling o'er thee.

Spare the sight,-- She faints--she dies!-- He laid her in the earth, Himself scarce living, and upon her tomb Beneath the beauteous tree where they reclined, Placed the last tribute of his earthly love.

400 INSCRIPTION FOR THE GRAVE OF ANNA D'ARFET.
O'er my poor ANNA'S lowly grave No dirge shall sound, no knell shall ring; But angels, as the high pines wave, Their half-heard "Miserere" sing.
No flowers of transient bloom at eve The maidens on the turf shall strew; Nor sigh, as the sad spot they leave, Sweets to the sweet! a long adieu! But in this wilderness profound, O'er her the dove shall build her nest; 410 And ocean swell with softer sound A requiem to her dreams of rest! Ah! when shall I as quiet be, When not a friend, or human eye, Shall mark beneath the mossy tree The spot where we forgotten lie! To kiss her name on the cold stone, Is all that now on earth I crave; For in this world I am alone-- Oh, lay me with her in the grave! 420 ROBERT A MACHIN, 1344.
_Miserere nobis, Domine._ He placed the rude inscription on her stone, Which he with faltering hands had graved, and soon Himself beside it sunk--yet ere he died, Faintly he spoke: If ever ye shall hear, Companions of my few and evil days, Again the convent's vesper bells, oh! think Of me; and if in after-times the search Of men should reach this far removed spot, Let sad remembrance raise an humble shrine, And virgin choirs chaunt duly o'er our grave: 430 Peace, peace! His arm upon the mournful stone He dropped; his eyes, ere yet in death they closed, Turned to the name, till he could see no more ANNA.