Oh! the day was dark and dreary, For clouds swept o'er the sun, The burden of life seemed heavy,
Once through an autumn wood I roamed in tearful mood, By grief dismayed, doubting, and ill at ease;
Lift up your brown eyes, darling, Not timidly and shy, As in the fair, lost past, not thus
In his arm-chair, warmly cushioned, In the quiet earned by labor, Life's reposeful Indian summer,
A spirit is out to-night! His steeds are the winds; oh, list, How he madly sweeps o'er the clouds,
Isabelle has gold, and lands, Fate gave her a fair lot; Like the white lilies of the field
In the unquiet night, With all her beauty bright, She walketh my silent chamber to and fro;
Come to me soft-eyed sleep, With your ermine sandalled feet; Press the pain from my troubled brow
On the shore I sit and gaze Out on the twilight sea, For my ship may come, though many days
The Squire was none of your common men Whose ancestors nobody knows, But visible was his lineage
Like emerald lakes the meadows lie, And daisies dot the main; The sunbeams from the deep blue sky
Clear shone the moon, my mansion walls Towered white above the wood, Near, down the dark oak avenue
Draped in shadows stands the mountain Against the eastern sky, Above it the fair summer moon