 | Letters of Laura D'Auverne |  |
151
THE RAIN WAS ABATING.
The rain was abating,
The storm seem'd to wander
In thunder, that distance
Made solemn and grander;
Yet the night had set in,
And the mountains loom'd dreary,
As Mary look'd forth
With a spirit less weary.
The storm seem'd to wander
In thunder, that distance
Made solemn and grander;
Yet the night had set in,
And the mountains loom'd dreary,
As Mary look'd forth
With a spirit less weary.
She saw not the river
Its wide banks o'erflowing;
She reck'd not the torrents
Like wild horses going;
She heard not the scream
Of the eagle dark flying,—
Nor the shriek of her lover,
Far drowning,—and dying!
Its wide banks o'erflowing;
She reck'd not the torrents
Like wild horses going;
She heard not the scream
Of the eagle dark flying,—
Nor the shriek of her lover,
Far drowning,—and dying!
152
From his home, through the storm,
'Mid the night, did he venture,
To seek that lov'd door
He must never more enter!
Oh! woe for the hearts
Which the storm-waters sever;
And woe for the hopes
Which are lost,—and for ever!
'Mid the night, did he venture,
To seek that lov'd door
He must never more enter!
Oh! woe for the hearts
Which the storm-waters sever;
And woe for the hopes
Which are lost,—and for ever!
| Letters of Laura D'Auverne | |