But, while yet lone and fervid kneeling there,
Before his eyes, upon the grave appear
Primroses twain--the firstlings of the year,--
And bursting forth between the blossomed two,
Twin opening buds in simple beauty grew.
He gazed--he loved them as a living thing;
And wondrous thoughts and strange imagining
Those simple flowers spoke to his listening soul
In superstition's whispers; whose control
The wisest in their secret moments feel,
And blush at weakness they may not reveal.


VIII.

He left the place of death; and, rapt in thought,
The trysting-tree of love's young years he sought;
And, as its branches opened on his sight,
Bathing their young buds in the pale moonlight,
A whispered voice, melodious, soft, and low,
As if an angel mourned for mortal woe,
Borne on the ev'ning breeze, came o'er his ear:
He knew the voice--his heart stood still to hear!
And each sense seem'd a listener; but his eye
Sought the sad author of the wand'ring sigh;
And 'neath the tree he loved, a form as fair
As summer in its noontide, knelt in prayer.
He clasped his hands--his brow, his bosom burned;
He felt the past--the buried past returned!
Still, still he listened, till, like words of flame,