In penance for her sins. So, when my precious aunt was done, Might follow on the track): "Ah!" said my grandsire, as he shook Some powder in his pan, "What could this lovely creature do Against a desperate man!" Alas, nor chariot nor barouche Nor bandit cavalcade Tore from the trembling father's arms His all-accomplished maid. For her how happy had it been! And Heaven had spared to me To see one sad, ungathered rose On my ancestral tree. THE LAST LEAF I saw him once before, As he passed by the door; And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town. 1831. |