Across the fields of glitt’ring dew:—
Swift o’er the frozen lake she past
Unmindful of the driving blast,
And then she cried “the air is sweet—
“It fans the breast of Marguerite.”
The weedy lane she lov’d to tread
When stars their twinkling lustre shed;
While from the lone and silent Cot
The watchful Cur assail’d her not,
Though at the beggar he would fly,