IV

Nor any cloud would cross the vault,

But day increased from heat to heat,

      On stony drought and steaming salt;

Till now at noon she slept again,

      And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass,

      And heard her native breezes pass,

And runlets babbling down the glen.

She breathed in sleep a lower moan,

                  And murmuring, as at night and morn,

            She thought, "My spirit is here alone,

                  Walks forgotten, and is forlorn."