She took no heed of her silvery veil,— Her cheek might be kiss'd by the sun or the gale: She saw but the scroll in the pilgrim's hand, And the palm-branch that told of the Holy Land. "THE SCROLL." L. E. L. THE maiden's cheek blush'd ruby bright, Little deemed she that letter would tell The maiden read till her cheek grew pale- She sees her own knight's last fond prayer, And she reads in that scroll her heart's despair. Oh! grave, Το how terrible art thou young hearts bound in one fond vow. Oh! human love, how vain is thy trust; Hope! how soon art thou laid in dust. Thou fatal pilgrim, who art thou, As thou fling'st the black veil from thy shadowy brow? |