XVII.

Pleas'd with his guest, the good man still would ply Each earnest question, and his converse court; But Gertrude, as she ey'd him, knew not why A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short. In England thou hast been,-and, by report, 'An orphan's name (quoth Albert) may'st have known: 'Sad tale!-when latest fell our frontier fort,

'One innocent-one soldier's child-alone

Was spared, and brought to me, who lov'd him as my

own.

XVIII.

Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful years
"These very walls his infant sports did see;
But most I lov'd him when his parting tears
'Alternately bedew'd my child and me:
'His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee;
Nor half its grief his little heart could hold:
'By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea,

.They tore him from us when but twelve years old,
And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consol'd.'-

XIX.

His face the wand'rer hid,-but could not hide

A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell;

however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery.

And speak, mysterious stranger!" (Gertrude cried) It is!-it is!-I knew-I knew him well!

"Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to tell!'
A burst of joy the father's lips declare;
But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell:

At once his open arms embrac'd the pair,
Was never group more blest, in this wide world of

care.

XX.

'And will ye pardon then (replied the youth)
'Your Waldegrave's feigned name, and false attire?
'I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth,
"The very fortunes of your house inquire;

'Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire
'Impart, and I my weakness all betray;
For had I lost my Gertrude, and my sire,

I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day,
Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away.

XXI.

'But here ye live,-ye bloom,-in each dear face
• The changing band of time I may not blame;
For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace,
'And here, of beauty perfected the frame;
And well I know your hearts are still the same,
"They could not change-ye look the very way,
As when an orphan first to you I came.

And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray?
Nay, wherefore weep we, friends, on such a joyous
day?

XXII.

And art thou here? or is it but a dream?

'And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou leave us

more?"

No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem 'Than aught on earth-than ev'n thyself of yore'I will not part thee from thy father's shore; But we shall cherish him with mutual arms, And hand in hand again the path explore, 'Which every ray of young remembrance warms, 'While thou shalt be my own with all thy truth and charms.'

XXIII.

At morn, as if beneath a galaxy

Of over-arching groves in blossoms white,
Where all was od❜rous scent and harmony,

And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight:
There if, oh gentle love! I read aright,

The utterance that seal'd thy sacred bond,
'Twas list'ning to these accents of delight,

She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond
Expression's power to paint, all languishingly fond.

XXIV.

'Flow'r of my life, so lovely, and so lone!
'Whom I would rather in this desert meet,

Scorning, and scorn'd by fortune's pow'r, than own 'Her pomp and splendours lavish'd at my feet! Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite Than odours cast on heav'n's own shrine-to please'Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet,

And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze, 'When Coromandel's ships return from Indian seas.'

XXV.

Then would that home admit them-happier far
Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon,
While here and there, a solitary star

Flush'd in the dark'ning firmament of June;
And silence brought the soul-felt hour, full soon,
Ineffable, which I may not portray;

For never did the Hymenean moon

A paradise of hearts more sacred sway,

In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray.

END OF PART SECOND.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

PART III.