I sit beneath the elm alone
Since thou, my own, my love, art gone.
Where hast thou trifled on the way,
Like truant-boy forbid to stay?
But hush, my heart, thou needst not chide:
Fitch Moreland claims his waiting bride!
My beating heart, what raptures thrill,
Tumultuous heart, be still! be still!"
A sturdy arm grasped Alice Hill,
Who struggling fiercely, shrieking shrill,