Yet never till then its bitterness
At heart had grieved her so.
Nature had waked the eternal wish—
—Liberty, far and wide!
And now, to win him health, with joy,
She would that morn have died.
Till noon she kept the shady door-way chair,
But never a measure of that ancient air.
Piped the March-wind;—pinched and slow
The deer were trooping in the snow;