Xxvi

There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide Somewhere within the shadows of that path Called Kosciusko's. There two figures bide,-- Grey and Miss Kitty. Surely Nature hath No fairer mirror for a might-be bride Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle To its dark heart one moment. At her side Grey bent. A something trembled o'er the well, Bright, spherical--a tear? Ah no! a button fell!