 | Julia Alpinula |  |
XXXIII.
Yes, they have come! morn, noon, and night,The starlight rest, the morrow's waking,
Nor left for Julia of their flight
One record, but a young heart breaking.
She seeks, 'tis true, her own-loved bower,
And in her ringlets wreathes the flower,
That only, which decay though slight
Has just, but just begun to blight;
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Pronouncing some half-murmured name.
But Oh! the pause when none are nigh,
Unconscious that the flower is taken,
The deep, involuntary sigh,
With which the holy bowl is shaken,
All speak a language to the eye,
Which cannot, cannot be mistaken.
And sometimes she would lean her head
Upon the virgins who surrounded,
And say there was a dream of dread
Which all her waking thoughts confounded,
A flitting form of some one dead;
She knew not why it so much wounded.
But she must gather palm and myrtle,
And see her hind, and feed the turtle,
Which her dear father's ear each spring
Soothes with perpetual murmuring.
“My father! wherefore did he go?
“It was unkind! the days were many;
“He was not wont to leave me so!
“Oh, if he e'er be seen by any,
“I charge you, by my love, make known
“To him that I am all alone!”
Then will she gently turn away,
And seek the holy shrine to pray,
69
Abrupt to every passer-by.—
| Julia Alpinula | |