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,   A moment more—and they shall meet—   ’Tis past—her Lover’s at her feet.