Francisca

Francisca walks in the shadow of night,

But it is not to gaze on the heavenly light --

But if she sits in her garden bower,

'Tis not for the sake of its blowing flower.

She listens -- but not for the nightingale,

Though her ear expects as soft a tale.

There winds a step through the foliage thick,

And her cheek grows pale -- and her heart beats quick.

There whispers a voice thro' the rustling leaves,

And her blush returns -- and her bosom heaves.

A moment more -- and they shall meet --

'Tis past -- her Lover's at her feet.