ELEANORE.

The forest flowers are faded all, The winds complain, the snow-flakes fall, Eleanore! I turn to thee, as to a bower:— Thou breathest beauty like a flower, Thou smilest like a happy hour, Eleanore!

I turn to thee. I bless afar Thy name, which is my guiding-star, Eleanore! And yet, ah God! when thou art here I faint, I hold my breath for fear. Art thou some phantom wandering near, Eleanore?

Oh, take me to thy bosom fair; Oh, cover me with thy golden hair, Eleanore! There let me lie when I am dead, Those morning beams about me spread, The glory of thy face o'erhead, Eleanore!