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186

WOLFE OF THE KNOLL.

And, as one who dreameth rather,
Closely clasps her throbbing brow.

Oh, 'twere pity to behold her
Pale as Cynthia's struggling ray,
While the fever-mists enfold her
That she strives to chase away !
Richer gifts of form and feature
Ne'er did mortal maiden share,
And to Melleff mortal creature
Never shone so heavenly fair.
He would die the doubt to banish
That with darkness fills her brain —
Lo, the passing shadows vanish,
And her eye is clear again !

"Aye, I know — yet why delay we ?
My deliverer, wherefore wait ?
Nefta's bowers lie far — why stay we ?
And my father's grief is great !"