The gathering thunder’s voice of fate;
When the aspen scarcely waves in air,
And the clouds collect for the lightning’s glare—
Each, each alike is awful there,
And thrills the soul with feelings high,
As some majestic harmony.
But she, the maid, whose footsteps traced
Each green retreat in breathless haste—
Young Ella—linger’d not to hear
The wood-notes, lost on mourner’s ear.