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Passed behind the cottage eaves,
Curling through the maple leaves:
Through the pines and old elm trees,
Belies of past centuries,
Hardy oaks, that never breeze
Humbled to their gnarly knees:
Forest lords, beneath whose sheen
Flowers bloomed for Mariline.
Round the cottage, fresh and green,
Climbed the vine, the scarlet bean,
Morning-glories peeped between,
Looking out for Mariline.
Odours never felt before
Tranced the locust at the door,
Vieing with the mignonette
Bound the garden parapet,
Whose rare fragrances were met
By rich perfumes, rarer yet,
Stealing from the garden walks,
Sentineled with hollyhocks.
VIII.
What a heaven the cottage seemed!
Love's own temple, where Faith dreamed
Of the coming years that beamed
On them, as pale stars have gleamed