The sun had fallen beneath the neighboring steep,
And “we must part,” the mother said at last—
On through the oaks the little wanderer passed,
Turning, at times; but did not dare to weep.
———
[To the above I have presumed to make a pendant.]
THE DYING SAVOYARD.
Cold, cold is the storm, with its darkness and danger!
Take pity, dear friends, on a poor little stranger:
To-night is a feast in your village, I’m told,