EARL MARCH looked on his dying child,
And, smit with grief to view her—
The youth, he cried, whom I exiled
Shall be restored to woo her.
She’s at the window many an hour
His coming to discover:
And he looked up to Ellen’s bower
And she looked on her lover—
But ah! so pale, he knew her not,
Though her smile on him was dwelling!
And am I then forgot—forgot?
It broke the heart of Ellen.
In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,
Her cheek is cold as ashes;
Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyes
To lift their silken lashes.