Chapter XLV (6)

Far away from life's pain and passion,
And our Eden of love, she went,
Like a pale star fading softly
From the morning's golden tent.

But oft, when the bosom of Autumn
Is warm with the summer beams,
We meet in the pallid shadows
That border the land of dreams,

For seeing my woe through the splendor
That hovers about her above,
She puts from her forehead the glory,
And listens again to my love.

MY NOVEL:

OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[18]

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.