She thought but of her heart,
And knowing that the winter's strife
Could not its hope dispart,
She dream'd not that its home of clay
Might yield before the tempest's sway--

Or judged that passion's power--
Passion so strong and pure.
Might mock the snow-flake's wildering shower,
Proud that it could endure,
As woman oft in times before
Had peril borne as much or more.

She went--dawn past o'er dawn,
None saw her face again,
The eyes she should have gazed upon,
Look'd for her face in vain--
The ear to which her voice was song,
Her voice had sought--how vainly long!

There is in Saco's vale
A gently swelling hill,
Shadows have wrapt it like a veil
From trees that mark it still,
Around, the mountains towering blue
Look on that spot of saddest hue.

'Twas by that little hill,
At the dark noon of night,
Close by a frozen snow-hid rill,