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ePaper created 2014-04-08, 18:05:31 | version 1.29.01
116 And the bright streams winding far away Through wild and woodland bowers- How died the faith of Earth’s elder day, That fill’d its silent hours With prophet-dreams, and spells that clung To the bright May Eves when we were young! But the young of our hills go forth no more To seek, at the fall of night, The flower that brings to the maiden’s dream His glance and form, who yet may claim Her heart’s high place though they never came Before her waking sight! And there comes from our youth a sad old theme Of that blossom’s mystic might- Yet the girl was fair, and young, and gay, Who sought her love on the Eve of May. The youth she saw had the glance and brow Of a dark and alien race, Who knelt at altars deem’d unbless’d- But never from the maiden’s breast Might pass the track of that shadowy guest; And on each wanderer’s face She cast a glance that knew no rest, In its silent search to trace The beauty of the brow, whose beam Had lighted her unforgotten dream. The time of the sweet May Eve return’d- But the storm-clouds linger’d long Around our northern cliffs, for night Had heard the roar of the tempest’s might; And a far-bound bark, as the dawn grew white,