"
And sure the spot was haunted by a power
To fix the pulses in each youthful heart;
Never was moon more gracious in a bower,
Making delicious fancy-work for art,
Weaving so meekly bright
Her pictures of delight,
That, though afraid to stay, we sorrowed to depart.
"If these old groves are haunted"--sudden then,
Said she, our sweet companion,--"it must be
By one who loved, and was beloved again,
And joy'd all forms of loveliness to see:--
Here, in these groves they went,
Where love and worship, blent,
Still framed the proper God for each idolatry.
"It could not be that love should here be stern,
Or beauty fail to sway with sov'reign might;
These from so blessed scenes should something learn,
And swell with tenderness, and shape delight:
These groves have had their power,
And bliss, in by-gone hour,
Hath charm'd with sight and song the passage of the night."
"It were a bliss to think so;" made reply
Our Hubert--"yet the tale is something old,
That checks us with denial;--and our sky,
And these brown woods that, in its glittering fold,
Look like a fairy clime,
Still unsubdued by time,
Have evermore the tale of wrong'd devotion told.
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