XLIII.
Could this change be? The hour, the scene, where last
I saw that form, came floating o’er my mind:
A golden vintage-eve; the heats were pass’d,
And, in the freshness of the fanning wind,
Her father sat where gleam’d the first faint star
Through the lime-boughs; and with her light guitar,
She, on the greensward at his feet reclined,
In his calm face laugh’d up; some shepherd lay
Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play.