The faint perfume the opening rosebud yields,

And the white daisies spangling o'er the fields, dear to her for genius flings,

Were very

Its own bright colouring o'er the simplest things.

There was but one who knew her well,-and he
Loved her almost unto idolatry.

He had not only seen her in the throng,

Joining the dance, and mingling in the song,

Where still his eye, amidst the gladsome stir, Turned from more beauteous forms to gaze on her;

He had beheld her bending o'er the page

Of many a poet and long buried sage,

And seen the fresh enthusiasm arise

In the quick lightning of her wild dark eyes;

And he had wandered when the day was done
With her to gaze upon the setting sun;

Had looked upon her in the still moonlight,
Had seen her raptures in a beauteous night,

Had known each dream that passed through her

pure breast,

And knew not when she was the loveliest !

She never hid a thought, a hope from him

He was to her another self; the dim

First dawnings of her genius, and the first

Rude lays she framed, until these glimmerings burst

Into a deathless flame,-to him were known;

Even as that lovely evening star hath shown

From its first rising, every trembling gleam
Unto the faithful bosom of that stream.

At length there came a time when all the truth

Of real life broke through these dreams of youth,

For he was forced to leave his native isle,

And his dear home, and his sweet Margaret's smile,

For other lands.-There is an ancient oak

That since is blasted by the thunder stroke,

Hard by that cottage: then its broad boughs made In summer time a cool and pleasant shade,

And round its roots a thousand wild flowers sprung,
And o'er its boughs woodbine and ivy hung,-

"T was there they parted: 't was a fresh spring morn,
And the sweet may had covered that old thorn
With its pearl blossoms, that had made the ground
As if a spring snow-shower had fallen around.
There is a sweet, sad pleasure when we part
With all Hope's visions quickening in the heart,
And when the tears we shed are but the showers
Of morning dew, that fall from life's first flowers:
Such was their parting—and they fondly deemed
That they should meet again; and nothing seemed
More full of peace and promise than the way
That, strewed with thornless flowers, before them lay.

Time passed along,-and Margaret's simple name
Was blended with the fleeting breath of Fame;

And glory shone around her: many strove
Vainly to win the gentle minstrel's love-
But that was all for Henry;-and she thought
Ofttimes, what joy within his bosom wrought,
Whene'er he heard that she, his promised bride,
Was named with those who were his country's pride.

Alas! she was too happy then. At length

Her cheek grew pale, her light step lost its strength; Gently as drops a blossom in the breeze,

Softly as music dies along the seas,

She withered. Genius! wherefore is it thus?

Why is thy stay so very short with us?

Why do the forms, that thou hast sacred made

By dwelling in them, still the soonest fade?

Oh! as an eagle fettered from its birth

Still feels its element is not the earth,

And restless in its lone captivity,

Weakens its bonds in efforts to be free,

Until it bursts away, and rising high,

Looks proudly on its prison from the sky;
So doth the lofty and the gifted soul,

Impatient of the earth, and earth's controul,
Shake off the shackles of its human clay,

And flee on its rejoicing wings away.

At first, all thought 'twas but a passing ill

That they might soon remove, and bore her still

From place to place; but Margaret felt 't was

vain,

And prayed that they would bear her home again

To her green valley-for she felt that death
Must come, and she should love to lie beneath
The turf in that church-yard where she had played

In childhood, and where many a friend was laid.

And she seemed happier in her quiet home,

And calmly talked of death, that soon would come;