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XXXII.

I know not if I shall gain belief,
And for human perfidy, human grief,

For the broken faith I sing.
But Annie had scarcely been gone a week,
When Alfred to Eva began to speak

In a tone her blushes to bring.

She to a sister's lover bent

An ear of attention, and possibly went,

A little too far, I fear.
For Alfred forgot the vows he swore,
And the lock of Annie's hair he wore,

And the whispered words in her ear.

He began to make love in a desperate style;
At first, 'twas only the time to beguile,

Awaiting Annie's return;
But Eva's eyes were so bright, and so fair
The shining masses of golden hair,

That soon deeper emotions burn.

And Eva, who never expected wrong,
No thought of guile made her pulses throng,
Until one fine afternoon,

Upon my vision the picture came,
Of Alfred on his knees again,

To another singing his song.

Tears and sobs, like a summer's storm,
Convulsed fair Eva's beautiful form,

As she listened to perfidy.
How could she bear those words? They seemed
To speak him worse than ere she deemed

Was aught of infamy.

That he, who a little time ago,

Had seemed no other pleasure to know,

But Annie's loving smile.
Should now, so miserably base,
With a look of false tenderness in his face,

Strive her heart to beguile!

But if Eva was young, her heart was strong,
Free from a single thought of wrong,

She scorned the traitor there.
Yet fearing and trembling to stay,
She tore herself from all away,

Ere any one was aware.

Her mind resolved, whate'er might come,
To leave her mother, to leave her home,

Sooner than see again

Annie's face. When returned from her stay,
She might accuse her of some false play,
Or think she had caused her pain.

So Eva arose, and nobly fled;

Her heart at leaving her mother bled,

Though upheld by a right divine. I only knew where she went the while, I followed her path by the light of her smile,

To a home with a friend of mine.

XXXIII.

A mother's voice for a daughter calls,

A mother cries in vain,

For Eva is far away;

The echoes ring from silent walls,

The cries are cries of pain;

It is a weary day.

'Twas I suggested a home of love
For Eva, when she fled,
With a friend in a quiet spot,
But ere I made her approve
Of that home, till Annie was wed,
I promised to mention it not.

I liked not deceiving a mother's heart,

But I yielded when she gave

A note, telling she was well,

And for Eva I bore my part,

At their questions of course looking grave,

Where my promise forbade to tell.

XXXIV.

Alfred knows the cause of gentle Eva's flight,

But he stands aloof;

His lips curl up with scorn,

A smile satirically worn.

His eyes fixed on the roof,

When I bid him speak,

Tell them all he knows;

His look his knowledge shows,

And his reddening cheek.

He knows not where she is,

And he fears disgrace,

When Annie's returning face,

Tells him she is his,
So, though he could, he abstains from doing right.

When they are married, I hope he will prove
More worthy Annie's faithful love.

XXXV.

Annie's wedding-day dawns bright,
Fresh blows the summer breeze;
The rain that fell in the night,
Has refreshed the drooping trees;
Not a single cloud appears in sight,
For the sky has wished to please.

All night while the thunder pealed,
And the sky glowed lurid red,
Each flash of lightning revealed,
A maid who in vain sought bed;
Till morning gently sealed,
Sweet slumbers around her head.

With sheets of fire the sky
Had burned like mighty flame,
The rising winds whistled high,
And loudly splashed the rain;
Till, when the dawn was nigh,
The heavens grew calm again.

The sun sprang up from his rest,

Brightening all around;

His warming rays soon expressed

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