EMILY.
BY MISS LANDON.
Her eye has wandered from the book
That rests upon her knee;
Gone from that page of love and war,
Where can her fancy be?
Is it amid those pleasant vales
Where once her childhood strayed;
Those olive groves upon the hill,
The myrtles in the glade—
Where, almost hidden from the bee,
The early violet dwells,
Or where the Spring chimes fragrant peals
From the blue hyacinth bells?
Ah! there is colour on her cheek,
And languor in her eye;
It is some deeper, dearer thought,
That now is flitting by!
A history of old romance
That painted page has shown;
How can she read of others' love
And not recal her own?
Her heart is in the tented field,
A youthful knight is there;
Ah! well she knows the scarf and glove
Which he is vow'd to wear.
