love is like the flower
That bloometh not in sunny bower;
But when the dark and solemn night,
Has gathered round with storm and blight,
Unfolds its petals bright and rare,
And sheds its fragrance on the air;
And if it dare and peril all,
Asks only to preserve or fall,
His bleeding land requires his arm--
God will protect the brave from harm."

"Behold!" and Morna turned to gaze
Upon the huge tree, dark and lone,
The withered finger of the crone
Marked out, and glancing in the rays
Of morn, beheld a serpent coil
Its glossy length, with easy toil,
Up the brown trunk, till close it hung
Above the wild bird's nest and young;
While round and round, with scream of dread,
The frighted bird in anguish fled;
And vainly sought to drive the foe
From his dark aim again below.

XI.

Moments there are when Reason's control,
Yieldeth to Fancy in heart and soul;
When the spirit views with prescient eye,
The common light and shaded sky,
An omen finds in the falling leaf,
And symbols in all things of joy or grief.
And this was one, for on that failing strife
Had Morna cast her dearest hope in life.
Must she behold with power as vain to shield,
Earth's only blessing from her presence torn?
Was there a fiercer pang for her revealed
In that short conflict than she yet had known?
Her dark eyes grew more wildly bright,
And gleamed with an intenser light,
As closer drew the venomed fang,
And shrill the lone bird's accents rang.
But, hark! a shot--a rustling fall--
Approaching steps--a sportman's call--
The parent bird is in the dust;
And o'er the path that homeward led,
With fleeting step fair Morna fled,
And breathed a prayer of thanks and trust.
Though sweet to live, more blest to die,
For those that strong affections tie
Has fettered to the clinging heart,
With links not Death can wholly part.

XII.

The day wore on, and down the West,
The sun had rolled in his unrest;
While gorgeous clouds of gold and red,
Reflected back the splendor fled;
And twilight--pensive nun, to pray,
In silence drew her veil of gray.
The last bright gleam was waxing pale,
And low night winds began their wail,
When near a ruined house, that stood
Within a grove of tulip wood,
Young Lennard paused an