The restlessness that makes the heart in grief desire to roam,
Made me one summer long gone by oft wander from my home,
My little prattlers one by one were laid beneath the sod,
And I ne'er tried to bend my soul, or kiss the smiting rod.

I often roamed thro' Erlingchase, where once the huntinghorn,
And merry men with horse and hound, would wake the early morn;
But now throughout the lordly parks reigned silence still and deep,
And there, when weary, oft I turned, and sat me down to weep.

I went one eve to rest within a flowery little dell,
Where the grass was strewn with the rose-leaves that in the light winds fell,
And there I found a wearied one, whose look of pain foregone,
And patient sweetness 'midst her woes, would melt a heart of stone.

But though her garb was stained and worn, her proud imperial grace
And sweet-toned 'voice told she had sprung from some old kingly race.

I gazed upon the beauteous one that sweetly on me smiled,
And thought of an exotic cast to die upon the wild.

" O worn and weary-looking one, " I said, " tell me thy tale:
What is the wound within thy breast that makes thy cheek so pale,
That lined so deep the rosy mouth once curved with love and pride,
The soul took from the smile that now but whispers hope has died?

" Hide not thy cruel wounds, dear heart, for I have skill to bind
And soothe with sympathy's good balm the bruises of the mind;
For I have borne within my soul sore anguish, grief, and pain,
That you might search a thousand hearts, and seek for such in vain. "

" And if thy griefs were more than mine, " she answered soft and low,
" Thou'lt say when I to thee unfold my tale of bitter woe,
I would not mourn, methinks, though all my hopes and joys took wing;
But 'tis to blight where fain I'd bless that gives the cruel sting.

" I stood on fortune's golden height, where velvet lined my way,
Where laden came each fairy hour with all that's bright and gay.
Friends thronged my home to woo my smile, or glad me with their own,
Though now I wander far and wide unaided and alone.

" And lovers came to tell their tale, with rapture in their eyes,
And vowed they cared not for my gold — I was their sought-for prize.
But all my love was Cecil Vere's, a thousand times I said;
I wished I had an empire's crown to place upon his head.

" If I could have made Cecil blest, oh! I would ne'er repine,
Unseen, unnoticed, and unknown, if but his love were mine.
My sire was gay Sir Ralph de Clare, I was his only child;
I've heard my mother weep, and say his ways were strange and wild.

" She died, and I, a thoughtless girl, danced merrily and gay,
And knew not in his hands my wealth was ebbing fast away.
One morn they found him in his room all cold, and stiff, and dead;
A pistol in his hand was clutched, a shot was through his head.

" These must be raindrops on my face — I never shed a tear;
Their fountain all was scorched and dried with grief and pain and fear.
Well, when my sire was in his grave I had to leave my home,
With nought but the great agony that to my soul had come.

" 'Twas then I thought of all the times my father to me came
With cheques on which, with gifts and smiles he bade me write my name.
Oh! madness — with what faith I wrote on what I never read!
And I to-day am lone and poor, and he is with the dead.

" The friends that thronged my tiny court, and hailed me as their queen,
When ruin's whirlwind came forgot that I had ever been.
But, oh! I cared not for them all if Cecil had but come.
He came not, and as I have said, I had to leave my home.

" My maid, a girl who served me long, wept o'er my hapless lot,
And begged of me with her to share her brother's humble cot.
My helplessness and wish to leave a world that seemed so cold,
Made me consent, for I had gems that could be turned to gold.

" There Mary, with a beauteous grace, aye strove to make me feel
That she was but my humble maid, and I her mistress still;
And Harold was so great and strong, so tender, true, and wise,
With his dark crown of curling locks, his large, deep azure eyes.

" I rested in their lowly home among the Scottish hills,
And gladly drank their kind good-will, pure as the mountain rills,
Until at length a shadow fell, and I beheld with pain
Young Harold gave his wealth of love where all his love was vain.

" I pitied him, as day by day I watched his cheek grow pale;
His manly form drooped as the bough that bends before the gale,
My griefs had made me pitiful and grateful to this youth,
Who seemed the first who ever gave me love that was a truth.

" I thought at length if I this soul could fill with joy and love,
My aimless, wasted life might still a nobler mission prove.
My mother's string of pearls, with which I used to braid my hair,
Might bring life's higher things to him who blessed me with his care.

" For he was of no common mould; there met in him combined
A knight's most graceful chivalry, a poet's lofty mind;
And as he read to us at eve, or played the violin,
His beauteous face beamed with the light that shone out from within.

" In honour he concealed his love, so I one summer eve
Went to him where he often sat his chequered dreams to weave.
And when I offered him my hand he gazed like one gone wild,
Then calmly said, " It cannot be, thou good and lovely child.

" " I'd die to get thy soul's embrace, though doomed to live apart;
But, oh! my love, I could not take thy hand without thine heart.
I could not do so great a wrong, though my heart tempts me sore
To strain thee to my breast as mine, and keep thee ever more."

" " Then Harold, we'll not part," I said, " thy love is so divine;
The smoking flax of mine must burn near such a flame as thine."
He kissed my hands in silent joy, and feasted on each kiss,
Whilst I thought what a bliss were mine had Cecil loved like this.

" Upon our bridal morn he came and took my hand so grave,
And asked if I would ne'er regret to him the gift I gave,
My high-born self, so young and fair — a prize for belted earl,
I whispered " No;" he smiling, said I was a foolish girl.

" His worship beamed in his bright eyes, he kissed my hands and face,
And spoke of his resolve to win for me a higher place,
I, laughing, said I was content with this our humble lot,
And I would learn to bake and spin, and clean our pretty cot.

" At noon that day the words were spoke that made us one for life,
And Harold proudly hailed me then his own beloved wife,
I trembling stood, I knew not why, I felt such pain and fear;
I raised my eyes — they fell upon the face of Cecil Vere.

" My own loved Cecil, with the old sweet lovelight in his eyes;
And there he stood, as dumb as stone, with anguish and surprise.
I gazed at him in speechless woe, then shrieked in my despair,
I, fainting, fell, and when I woke my Cecil was not there.

" I felt my mind was giving way, and, oh! I'm thankful now
I clung around dear Harold's neck, and kissed his lips and brow.
I shrieked aloud, he gently soothed, and asked in tender love,
" Who was the hawk that frightened thus his own sweet wounded dove?"

" " Alas!" I cried, " 'tis him I love, and he has come too late;
And then I thought how my rude words embittered Harold's fate,
When he said, as he clasped me close, " Ah! idol of my soul,
Thine Harold would be glad to die if thy wounds were made whole."

" Then reason fled, and ere night came a maniac I was bound
And borne to a rude place whose name even has a hateful sound.
Some years passed o'er, then I was free, and sought dear Harold's home;
The one sweet, quiet, peaceful spot where rest to me could come.

" His home had quiet and peace and rest, but no place for his bride,
Beneath a grassy mound he slept, with Mary by his side.
Oh, Heaven! what anguish filled my soul as from that grave I fled,
A widow that was ne'er a wife, a maid that had been wed.

" A bitterness to all I loved more direful than a foe;
Where'er I sought to waken joy I brought but pain and woe.
And now I know I'm near the end, and I have wandered here,
That ere I die I may behold the face of Cecil Vere. "

She ceased to speak, and seemed so faint I bade her lie to sleep
An hour upon the fragrant grass, and I a watch would keep.
And as I watched, a gentleman of noble form I spied;
I gazed at him as he drew near, then eagerly I cried,

" Now, by thy locks of curling gold, and by thine eyes so brown,
And by thy stately loftiness that fits thee for a crown;
And by the griefs that softly veil the glories of thy face,
I think thou must be Cecil Vere, the Lord of Erlingchase.

" And if thou art, behold the wreck of one who loved thee dear,
And who to see thy face and die in weakness wandered here. "
He listened, breathless, as her tale in eager haste I told,
Then knelt in silence, wept, and kissed her locks of shining gold.

He took her gently in his arms, and in such tones caressed
As mother whispers to the babe that's dying on her breast,
" My beautiful Adele — my own, my fair and tender flower,
Why didst thou not thy Cecil trust in dark misfortune's hour?

" My sire had heard thy wealth was gone, then sent me off to sea,
By cruel guile, ere I had learned what had befallen thee.
When I returned and heard the tale of thy most bitter fate,
I madly sought thee far and near, and found thee, love, too late. "

" Too late again; we meet, " she said, " my Cecil but to part;
But, oh! my love, 'tis bless enow to die upon thine heart.
Fold thy dear arms around me close, light's fading from my view;
But to my soul 'tis bliss untold to know that thou were true. "

The setting sun poured forth his beams of crimson and of gold
Upon the sad and weary face that grew so wan and cold.
She saw them not — her beauteous eyes in death were getting dim;
She knew but that her love was near, and she was dear to him.

She pressed her pale lips to his face, and whispered as she died,
" With Harold Gordon bury me on green Benledi's side;
Thou, Cecil, wert my love thro' life; but sacred still must be
The sorrow of the kindly youth that died for love of me. "

He gazed in anguish on her clay, then gasped forth, " It is best —
Death has been kind — thou didst not know I would not break thy rest.
Within the halls of Erlingchase there reigns a stately-dame,
Who neither gave nor sought for love, yet wears thy Cecil's name.

" My sire, alas! thy thirst for gold a wealth untold has cost,
The love, the tenderness, the joy, that to my life are lost;
And thou, loved martyr, fair Adele, thou'lt sleep by Harold's side,
And oh that I even thus could be in death to thee allied. "

I raised a rebel voice no more against the chastening rod,
Nor murmured that my little ones were safe at home with God;
The deep despair in Cecil's heart my loved ones ne'er could feel.
Nor yet the untold agonies that crushed the fair Adele.