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136 SONGS FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE.
THE DESERTED COTTAGE.
The vine, untrained, was creeping there— Round the low porch it hung,
And sighing, seemed to ask for care, As in the breeze it swung.
The violet, all uncultur'd, too,
Grew with the daisy wild; But with a leaf of paler blue,
It bowed and meekly smiled.
The twitt'ring swallow round the eaves
Kept up a dismal song; The wind blew sadly through the leaves, , And sighing, died along.
The green-sward in its freshness lay—
The path was all untrod; No foot had shook the dews away,
Which glisten'd on the sod.
A sense of loneliness was there—
I felt it as I gazed; It came in every breath of air,
And in the sun's pale rays:
'Twas not the tangled vine, nor yet
The violet so fair,— Nor untrod path, with dew-drops wet—
Nor breezes sighing there; |
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