That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burned
And died of love that could not be returned.
“Her father dwelt where yonder castle shines
O’er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines.
As gay as ever, the laburnum’s pride
Waves o’er each walk where she was wont to glide,—
And still the garden whence she graced her brow,
As lovely blooms, though trod by strangers now.
How oft from yonder window o’er the lake,
Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shake