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 through parting ringlets rais'd, While she-yet something o'er her look The glorious numbers read; His of the gifted Pen and Sword,* She read of fair Erminia's flight, Which Venice once might hear, * It is scarcely necessary to recall the well known Italian saying, that Tasso with his sword and pen was superior to all men. Of him she read, who broke the charm Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, Young cheeks around that bright page glow'd, Fast o'er each burning word. And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, The mother turn'd—a way-worn man, Of proud, yet restless eye. But drops that would not stay for pride, From that dark eye gush'd free, As, pressing his pale brow, he cried, "Forgotten! e'en by thee! "Am I so chang'd?-and yet we two Oft hand in hand have play'd- From wreaths which thou hast made. My thoughts are dim with clouds of care- "Life hath been heavy on my head; I come, a stricken deer, Bearing the heart, 'midst crowds that bled, -She gaz'd-till thoughts that long had slept, She fell upon his neck, and wept, And breath'd 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 hearts of men; He of the song for Salem's shrine, He of the Sword and Pen ! TO THE POET WORDSWORTH. THINE is a strain to read amongst the hills, The old and full of voices-by the source Even such is thy deep song, that seems a part Or its calm spirit fitly may be taken To the still breast, in some sweet garden-bowers, Where summer winds each tree's low tones awaken, And bud and bell with changes mark the hours. There let thy thoughts be with me, while the day Sinks with a golden and serene decay. Or by some hearth where happy faces meet, When night hath hush'd the woods with all their birds, |