XLIII.

Could this change be? The hour, the scene, where last I saw that form, came floating o’er my mind: A golden vintage-eve; the heats were pass’d, And, in the freshness of the fanning wind, Her father sat where gleam’d the first faint star Through the lime-boughs; and with her light guitar, She, on the greensward at his feet reclined, In his calm face laugh’d up; some shepherd lay Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play.