At the foot of the green old mountain, nestling low.
Home of my wedded love; as fair and far away
It seems, as a city in Heaven to a toiling wretch below.
How happy we were! and I know that I was dear
To him as his soul. I saw the shadow rise—
Small at first as my hand, but growing day by day,
As the smooth-faced saint beguiled him with honeyed lies.
But I was to be his own true wife to the end;
“Never but one,”—in this he was firm as a rock.
Of course he should have his way; oh! a noble friend