Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/67

Rh With hapless exiles, and that dark-haired maid, Leading her little sister, in the steps Of their afflicted parents, hasting left The meal uneaten, and the table spread In their sweet cottage, to return no more, The lover held her to his heart, and prayed That from her erring people she would turn To the true fold of Christ, for so he deemed That ancient Church, for which his breast was clad In soldier's panoply. But she, with tears Like Niobe, a never-ceasing flood, Drew her soft hand from his, and dared the deep. And so, as years sped on, with patient brow She bare the burdens of the wilderness, His image, and an everlasting prayer Within her soul. And when she sank away, As fades the lily when its day is done, There was a deep-drawn sigh, and up-raised glance Of earnest supplication, that the hearts Severed so long, might join, where bigot zeal Should find no place. She hath a quiet bed Beneath yon turf, and an unwritten name On earth, which sister angels speak in heaven.

Vine of Roussillon! tell me other tales Of that high-hearted race, who for the sake