Ellen

That summer dawn, to Love and Edwin dear,
Her sky-blue gown, her happy tears and smiles;
And the broad harvests, stirring far and near,
And softly floating to the gates and stiles;
The meadow-sweet and wild rose dew-besprent,
And her pure words of troth, where are they now?
And the gay lark, that rose at once, and spent
His morning-music on her earliest vow?
He treads the sodden grass with weary foot
At twilight, weeping for his promised bride:
The wind blows cold; the corn has long been cut
And, three moons since, his plighted Ellen died!
But lo! that glimmer in the watery rut!
It is a star — in Heaven, yet by his side.