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ROSALIE.
When the fond mother blest her gentle child,
And for her welfare prayed the Virgin mild.
And she has left the aged one to steep
Her nightly couch with tears for that lost child,—
The Rosalie,—who left her age to weep,
When that tempter flattered her and wiled
Her steps away, from her own home beguiled.
She started up in agony:—her eye
Met Manfredi's. Softly he spoke, and smiled.
Memory is past, and thought and feeling lie
Lost in one dream—all thrown on one wild die.
They floated o'er the waters, till the moon
Looked from the blue sky in her zenith noon,—
