Than strokes that seem of sterner fate.
In yonder vault down by the aisle
Thou'lt read the good Sir Gregory's name--
His death the sequel of the tale
Inscribed upon that pictured frame.
Yet not forgot while rustic swain
Atunes his throat to melodie,
And warbles forth the soft refrain,
"Alace! alace I for Dowielee."



V.


Her father dead, Burde Olive fair--
Her mother's image--grows apace,
And oft she throws in pensive care
A glance upon that crape-veiled face:
She wonders what may be beneath.
But fears to lift the veil to know;
Her father with his latest breath
Forbade it, on the pain of woe,
Till she to eighteen years had grown,
With woman's wisdom duly fraught,
When she might take that picture down
And learn the lesson which it taught.
Yet as she sat within the bower
That bore a mother's sacred name,
She felt the heart's divining power