Chapter I

Do you remember, dear, the day we sat
And read together from an old love-book
Alone in that sweet, calm, sequestered nook
Which Nature made for souls to marvel at?
Beneath us stretched a soft and shining mat
Of velvet verdure; leaves and blossoms shook
As songsters all their melodies forsook
To hear a legend from Love’s laureate
We knew no fear, for there was no one by,
The stream seemed in its ripple to repeat
That tale of Lancelot, so sadly sweet,
Whom love enthralled in endless slavery.
Ah, me! there is no greater grief than when we feel
The thought of happier days o’er present sorrows steal.