And aye that volume on her lap is thrown,
Which every heart of human mould endears;
With Shakespeare’s self she speaks and smiles alone,
And no intruding visitation fears,
To shame the unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest tears.
XII.
And nought within the grove was heard or seen
But stock-doves ’plaining through its gloom profound,
Or winglet of the fairy humming bird,
Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round;