And as he thought, that dark, deep eye,
Seemed hovering as ’twas wont to bless,
When the soft hand would on him lie,
And sooth his soul to happiness.
Like the far-off stream, in its murmurings low,
Like the first warm breath of spring,
Like the Wickolis in its plaintive flow,
Or the ring-dove’s fluttering wing,
Came swelling along the balmy air,
As if a spirit itself was there,