Close, close, thy soft arms cling to mine:

Tears on thy lashes shine.

Ida.

Hark! love, the wind wails by

The wet October trees,

Swaying them mournfully:

The wet leaves shower and cease.

And hark! how blows the weary rain,

Against the shaken pane.

Raymond.

Ah, yes, the world is drear

Outside; there is no rest.

But what can Ida fear,

Shelter'd upon my breast?

Heed not the storm-blast, beating wild,

I love thee, love thee, child.

[19]

Ida.

Thy breath is in my hair,

Thy kisses on my cheek;

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