ELLEN NEVILLE. 
153 
There ruined summer-arbours stood, 
Mantled with moss and untwined vine, 
A wilderness of sweet woodbine, 
Ivy and starry jessamine, 
And mirrored in a murmuring flood 
Were marble forms of many a god, 
Some gazing on the daisied sod, 
Or half-seen through the underwood; 
And Venus fair, 
With parted hair, 
Was bending there. 
She seemed to mock the Sculptor’s art, 
And listening stood with lips apart. 
Others were buried ’mid the flowers,— 
Dryads, and Fauns, and Nymphs, and Hours, 
Stood peeping through the leafy bowers. 
It was one day, while Phoebe was gossiping as 
usual with the young gardener, that the Lady 
Ellen had wandered alone down one of the long, 
pleached avenues, at the end of which stood the old 
familiar summer-house, where she had passed many 
a happy hour, when a girl, in the society of her 
mother: and that, while she sat there musing on 
old times, and old bygone scenes, all teeming with 
sweet and sorrowful recollections, she was startled 
by the appearance of a tall, handsome-looking gen¬ 
tleman, who approached without observing her, so 
