VI.

Led by the golden star of Love,
Sweet Ellen took her wonted way,
And in the deep-defending grove
Sought refuge from the fervid day —

Oh! — Who is he whose ringlets fair
Disorder'd o'er his green vest flow,
Reclin'd in rest — whose sunny hair
Half hides the fair cheek's ardent glow?

'Tis he, that sprite's illusive guest,
(Ah me! that sprites can fate control!)
That lives still imag'd on her breast,
That lives still pictur'd in her soul.

As when some gentle spirit fled
From earth to breathe elysian air,
And, in the train whom we call dead,
Perceives its long-lov'd partner there;

Soft, sudden pleasure rushes o'er,
Resistless, o'er its airy frame,
To find its future fate restore
The object of its former flame.

So Ellen stood — less power to move
Had he, who, bound in Slumber's chain,
Seem'd haply, o'er his hills to rove,
And wind his woodland chase again.

She stood, but trembled — mingled fear,
And fond delight, and melting love,
Seiz'd all her soul; she came not near,
She came not near that fated grove.

She strives to fly — from wizard's wand
As well might powerless captive fly —
The new-cropt flower falls from her hand —
Ah! fall not with that flower to die!