II.

"Mewn cof anwyl." So sings the West wind through the darkling eve, In spirit-wanderings up and down the wold, Each mournful sorrow at its heart untold, Sighing in secret--as the angels grieve, "Bring back my love!" sobs the bereaved wind; And sleeping flow'rets waken at the sound, Shedding their dewy tears upon the ground: "She seeks," they whisper, "who shall never find!"