And with submissive love to count the flowers
Which yet are spared, and thro' the future hours
To send no busy dream!—She had not learn'd
Of sorrow till that hour, and therefore turn'd,
In weariness from life: then came th’ unrest,
The heart-sick yearning of the exile's breast,
The haunting sounds of voices far away,
And household steps; until at last she lay
On her lone couch of sickness, lost in dreams
Of the gay vineyards and blue-rushing streams
In her own sunny land, and murmuring oft
Familiar names, in accents wild, yet soft,
To strangers round that bed, who knew not aught
Of the deep spells wherewith each word was fraught.
To strangers?—Oh! could strangers raise the head
Gently as hers was rais'd?—did strangers shed
The kindly tears which bath'd that feverish brow
And wasted cheek with half unconscious flow?
Something was there, that thro' the lingering night
Outwatches patiently the taper's light,
