Are wreathed into chaplets of light for thy shrine?
“How Fancy has woven her fairy-land flowers
To garland with odor and beauty thine hours,
While Feeling’s pure fountains play softly and free,
And chant in their falling ‘For thee! for thee!’
Dost thou feel—dost thou see—oh! mine idol divine,
How I’ve yielded the soul of my soul for thy shrine.”
Thus sang the lady, but her waking hour
Drew near; for when her passionate song was mute,
And no fond answer thrilled through that hushed bower