O ye who wear love's gentle spell,
And bless the bondage, can ye tell
Blithe Alice Hill if this was Love,—
That like a homeless, wandering dove,
Beat at her fluttering heart, and sought
An altar for his blissful thought?
No longer now, like placid streams,
Life passes by in quiet dreams;
But hurried, feverish pulses shake
The beating heart they may not break,—