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!