Ye simple pleasures of my rural hours,
Ye skies all sunshine, and ye paths all flowers;
Home, where no more a soothing friend I see,
Dear happy home, a last farewell to thee!'
Claspt are her hands, her features strewn with hair,
And her eyes sparkle with a keen despair.
But as she turns, a sudden burst of tears,
And struggles, as of one withheld, she hears.
'Speak!' she conjures, 'ere yet to phrenzy driven,
Tell me who weeps? What angel sent from heaven?'