He was a child when thus the bower he wove,
(Oh! hath a day fled since his childhood’s time?)
That I might sit and hear the sound I love,
Beneath its shade—the convent’s vesper-chime.
And sit thou there!—for he was gentle ever,
With his glad voice he would have welcomed thee,
And brought fresh fruits to cool thy parch’d lips’ fever.
There in his place thou’rt resting—where is he?
If I could hear that laughing voice again,
But once again! How oft it wanders by,