They hied to distant lands,
That lord and peasant-maid:
The church ne'er joined their hands,
For Ella was betrayed!
Torn from her native bower,
That modest rose of May,
Drooped, in his stately tower,
And passed from earth away.

They laid her in the ground,
And Ella was forgot--
Dead was her father found
In his deserted cot.
But Ruthven--what of him?
He ran the story o'er,
And, filling to the brim,
He thought of it no more!





Twenty Years Ago




'Twas in the flush of summer-time,
Some twenty years or more,
When Ernest lost his way, and crossed