Come with me, friend!-We rested yon! There grew a flower she pluck'd and wore! this mossy stone She sat upon That broken fountain running o'er With the same ring, like silver bells. And said, "Perhaps the gossip tells And as her laugh rang clear and wild, He gave the greeting of the morn I knew him sad and gentle born By those two words-so calm and clear. His frame was slight, his forehead high And swept by threads of raven hair, The fire of thought was in his eye, And he was pale and marble fair, Till hidden by yon leaning tree, And loved him ere the echo died; And so, alas! did Melanie! |