He stood beside the mournful stream.
Above him, in a green old age,
He saw a weeping-willow trail
Its murmuring leaves; and at its foot
A single rose had taken root.
It grew upon a grassy mound,
At head of which a rustic cross
Pointed to heaven;—there last he met —
There last he clasped the fair Florette.
The old man’s eyes were full of tears,