Like the low moaning winds the trees among,
And you could see her tender heart was riven,
And all the love she had, she gave to Heaven,
Oft, when the god of day had sunk to rest,
And sunlight lingered in the rosy west,
Still would she wander forth, with noiseless tread,
And, by a secret influence spirit-led,
Seek the same spot to which her steps would stray
With those she loved—but now, oh! where are they?
March, 1841.