XI.

	And every breath that stirs the orange bough
	Makes her heart beat: and in each breeze's sigh
	She strains to hear the footstep, stealing slow,
	That summons to the garden gate to fly.
	He comes! the steps approach!—the sounds pass by,
	And far through distant streets extinguish'd fail:
	And many a doubting terror presses nigh,
	While still fond memory, striving to prevail,
	Repeats the treasur'd vows she ne'er could guess were frail.