This low-walled home is dear to her, she has come to it to-day
  From the lordly groves of her palace home afar,
  But not to stay; there’s a light on her brow like the light
        of a star,
And her eyes are looking beyond the earth, far, far away.

She was born in this cottage home, the sweetest rosebud of spring,
  And grew with its flowers, the fairest blossom of all,
  Till her friends ambitiously said she would grace
        the kingliest hall,
And flattery breathed on her ear its passionate whispering.

A man of riches and taste saw the maiden’s face,
  And thought her beauty would grace his stately southern home,
  So he took her there, with pictures from France, and
        statues from Rome,
And marvellous works of art from many an ancient place.

He decked her in costly attire, and showed her beauty with pride
  As for sympathy and love, what need of these had she? 
  He had placed her amidst the choicest treasures of land and sea,
His marble Hebe never complained, and why should his bride?

He had polished the beautiful unknown gem and set it in gold,
  He had given her his name and his wealth, what more
        could she ask? 
  When all other gifts were hers, it were surely an easy task
Her pleading spirit’s restless wings to fold.

The wise world called her blest, so heart be still,
  She had beauty, and splendor, and youth, and a husband
        calmly kind,
  And crowds of flattering friends her lofty mansion lined,
And dark-browed slaves awaited her queenly will.

Why should she dream of the past, of the days of old,
  Of her childhood home, and more oft of the home of the dead,
  Of the grave where she went alone the night before she was wed,
And knelt, with her pure cheek pressed to the marble cold?

It was not sin, she said, that those eyes of darkest blue
  Haunted her dreams more wildly from day to day,
  Since they looked on Heaven now, and she was so far away,
She could love the dead and still be to the living true.

She could think of him, the one who loved her best,
  Of him who true had been if all the world deceived,
  Who felt all grief with her when she was grieved,
And shared each joy that thrilled her girlish breast.

It was not sin that she heard that voice, gentle and deep,
  And the echo of a name—­it was cut in marble now—­
  So it was not sin, she said, as she breathed it low
In the midnight hour when all but she were asleep.

But she wearier grew of pride and pomp, like a home sick child
        she pined,
  And paler grew her cheek, as worn with a wearing pain,
  She said the fresh free country air would seem so sweet again,
So she went to her childhood home, as a pilgrim goes to a shrine,