Chapter L

Her bower is not of the vine, But the wild, wild eglantine! Not climbing a moldering arch, But upheld by the fir-green larch. Old ruins she flies: To new valleys she hies:— Not the hoar, moss-wood, Ivied trees each a rood— Not in Maramma she dwells, Hollow with hermit cells.

'Tis a new, new isle! An infant's its smile, Soft-rocked by the sea. Its bloom all in bud; No tide at its flood, In that fresh-born sea!

Spring! Spring! where she dwells, In her sycamore dells, Where Mardi is young and new: Its verdure all eyes with dew.

There, there! in the bright, balmy morns, The young deer sprout their horns, Deep-tangled in new-branching groves, Where the Red-Rover Robin roves,—

Stooping his crest, To his molting breast— Rekindling the flambeau there! Spring! Spring! where she dwells, In her sycamore dells:— Where, fulfilling their fates, All creatures seek mates— The thrush, the doe, and the hare!