And, wand’ring through the marble halls,
Where many a tear in secret falls,
Will vainly hope from day to day,
While creep the tardy hours away.
XLVI.
And through the shady citron grove,
At morn and eve the maid will rove,
And, gazing on the verdant ground,
Will start at every rust’ling sound,
And, pale with mingled hope and fear,