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160
SONG VII.
[With aching heart I pressed her lips]
I
With aching heart I pressed her lips,And farewell whispered there;
Her deep-blue eyes in silence spoke—
Their language was a tear.
Her beating breast replied to mine,—
I knew its meaning well;
Our mingling sighs together met,
And breathed a last farewell.
161
II
I climbed the hill, then pensive turnedMy tear-dimmed eyes around;
All I had ever loved on earth
In that green vale was found.
I saw the silent green churchyard,—
And Mary's “narrow cell:”
A dusky yew-tree marked her grave,
And waved a last farewell.
III
I saw the elm-tree-shaded cot,Where we in childhood played;
The hawthorn-hedge, and grassy lane
Down which we oft had strayed.
I leant against the well-known stile
That led to Foxby Dell;
The old church-clock struck solemnly,—
It was a last farewell.
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