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The strings were hush'd-the knights made way

For the queenly mother's tread,

As up the hall, in dark array,

Two fair-hair'd boys she led.

She led them ev'n to the Kaiser's place,

And still before him stood;

Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face
Flush'd the proud warrior-blood :

And "Speak, my mother! speak!" he cried,
"Wherefore this mourning vest?

And the clinging children by thy side,
In weeds of sadness drest?"

"Well may a mourning vest be mine,
And theirs, my son, my son!
Look on the features of thy line

In each fair little one!

Tho' grief awhile within their eyes

Hath tamed the dancing glee,

Yet there thine own quick spirit lies

Thy brother's children see?

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"And where is he, thy brother, where? He, in thy home that grew,

And smiling, with his sunny hair,

Ever to greet thee flew?

How would his arms thy neck entwine,

His fond lips press thy brow!
My son! oh, call these orphans thine-
Thou hast no brother now!

"What! from their gentle eyes doth nought
Speak of thy childhood's hours,
And smite thee with a tender thought
Of thy dead father's towers?

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Kind was thy boyish heart and true,

When rear'd together there,

Thro' the old woods like fawns

Where is thy brother-where?



"Well didst thou love him then, and he

Still at thy side was seen!

How is it that such things can be,

As tho' they near had been?

Evil was this world's breath, which came
Between the good and brave!

Now must the tears of grief and shame
Be offer'd to the grave.

"And let them, let them there be pour'd!
Tho' all unfelt below,

Thine own wrung heart, to love restor❜d,
Shall soften as they flow.

Oh! death is mighty to make peace ;

Now bid his work be done!


many an inward strife shall cease

Take, take these babes, my son!"

His eye was dimm'd--the strong man shook With feelings long suppress'd;

Up in his arms the boys he took,

And strain'd them to his breast.

And a shout from all in the royal hall

Burst forth to hail the sight;

And eyes were wet, midst the brave that met

At the Kaiser's feast that night.

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"Devant vous est Sorrente; là démeuroit la soeur de Tasse, quand il vint en pélérin demander à cette obscure amie, un asyle contre l'injustice des princes,-Ses longues douleurs avaient presque egaré sa raison; il ne lui restoit plus que son génie."-Corinne.

SHE sat, where on each wind that sigh'd,

The citron's breath went by,

While the red gold of eventide

Burn'd in th' Italian sky.

Her bower was one where daylight's close

Full oft sweet laughter found,

As thence the voice of childhood rose
To the high vineyards round.

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