IV.

Alas! there are of things--we see them
Without the aid of wizard's spell;
But there are other things--we dree them,
No art of wizard can foretell:
Strange thing the heart where love has power,
So tossed with joy or racked with pain!
Dark Willie from that fatal hour
Seemed fated ne'er to smile again.

In vain now Clara, sembling gladness,
Plies the magic of her wile,
To draw him off from his great sadness,
And cheat him of a loving smile:
The more her sympathy she tenders,
The more he will by art defy
All beauty which but contrast renders
With his own dear lost Marjory.


V.

Now Time's big silent, solemn billow
Rolls quietly on from year to year:
Don Pedro lies on his green pillow,
With love-lorn Clara sleeping near.
But, ere he died, he did declare it
His pleasure when his days were told,
And Clara dead, with none to share it,