Now she is not; the swelling turf reports
Of the fresh shower, but of poor Ellen's tears
Is silent; nor is any vestige left
Of the path worn by mournful tread of her
Who, at her heart's light bidding, once had moved
In virgin fearlessness, with step that seemed[597]
Caught from the pressure of elastic turf
Upon the mountains gemmed[598] with morning dew,
In the prime hour of sweetest scents and airs.
—Serious and thoughtful was her mind; and yet,