And lovers around her are sighing,
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking:
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.
Her voice faltered—she paused.
“Come! no miserable, maudlin, mawkish self-pity, I beseech you!” whispered Major Cabell, stooping to her ear.
Whether Mr. Clifton heard the cruel whisper, or whether he only saw her slight agitation, is uncertain—but he drew near and stood by her side. She recovered, and continued—