Amidst them one of spotless marble shone—
A maiden’s grave—and ’twas inscribed thereon,
That young and loved she died whose dust was there:
“Yes,” said my comrade, “young she died, and fair!
Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness played
Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid:
Her fingers witched the chords they passed along,
And her lips seemed to kiss the soul in song:
Yet wooed, and worshipped as she was, till few
Aspired to hope, ’twas sadly, strangely true,