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But still and thoughtful, at her knee,

Her children stood that hour,

Their bursts of song and dancing glee,

Hush'd as by words of power.

With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes that gaz'd

Up to their mother's face,

With brows thro' parted ringlets rais'd,
They stood in silent grace.

While she-yet something o'er her look
Of mournfulness was spread--
Forth from a poet's magic book,

The glorious numbers read;
The proud undying lay, which pour'd

Its light on evil years;

His of the gifted pen and sword,*
The triumph--and the tears.

It is scarcely necessary to recall the well-known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all men.

She read of fair Erminia's flight,

Which Venice once might hear

Sung on her glittering seas at night,

By many a Gondolier

; Of him she read, who broke the charm

That wrapt the myrtle grove ;

Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm,
That slew his Paynim love.

Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd,

Young holy hearts were stirr'd;

And the meek tears of woman flow'd

Fast o'er each burning word.

And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf,
Came sweet, each pause between ;
When a strange voice of sudden grief

Burst on the gentle scene.

The mother turn'd--a way-worn man,
In pilgrim-garb stood nigh,

Of stately mien, yet wild and wan,
Of proud yet mournful eye.

But drops which would not stay for pride,
From that dark eye gush'd free,
As pressing his pale brow, he cried,
"Forgotten! ev'n by thee!

"Am I so changed ?--and yet we two Oft hand in hand have play'd ;This brow hath been all bath'd in dew,

From wreaths which thou hast made; We have knelt down and said one prayer, And sung one vesper-strain ; My soul is dim with clouds of careTell me those words again!

"Life hath been heavy on my head,

I come a stricken deer,

Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled,

To bleed in stillness here."

She gaz'd-till thoughts that long had slept,
Shook all her thrilling frame-

She fell upon his neck and wept,
Murmuring her brother's name.

Her brother's name !-and who was he,
The weary one, th' unknown,
That came, the bitter world to flee,
A stranger to his own?--

He was the bard of gifts divine
To sway the souls of men ;
He of the song for Salem's shrine,

He of the sword and pen!


Yet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars,
And gaz'd o'er heaven in vain, in search of thee.
Speak to me! I have wander'd o'er the earth,
And never found thy likeness.-Speak to me !
This once-once more!


"THOU'RT gone!--thou'rt slumbering low,

With the sounding seas above thee;

It is but a restless wo,

But a haunting dream to love thee! Thrice the glad swan has sung,

To greet the spring-time hours, Since thine oar at parting flung The white spray up in showers.

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