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A DOMESTIC TALE.
'Twas sunset, and the Ranz des Vaches was sung,
From heights brouzed by the bounding bouquetin; Herds tinkling roam'd the long-drawn vales between, And hamlets glitter'd white, and gardens flourish'd green.
'Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air! The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare, And roving with his minstrelsy across
The scented wild weeds, and enamell'd moss.
Earth's features so harmoniously were link'd,
She seem'd one great glad form, with life instinct, That felt Heav'n's ardent breath, and smiled below Its flush of love, with consentaneous glow.
A Gothic church was near; the spot around Was beautiful, ev'n though sepulchral ground;
For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,
Amidst them one of spotless marble shone—
A maiden's grave-and 'twas inscribed thereon,
"Yes," said my comrade, "young she died, and fair! Grace form'd her, and the soul of gladness play'd Once in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid : Her fingers witch'd the chords they pass'd along, And her lips seem'd to kiss the soul in song: Yet woo'd, and worship'd as she was, till few Aspired to hope, 'twas sadly, strangely true, That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burn'd
And died of love that could not be return'd.