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Judge both Fugitives with knowledge:
Foes might hang upon their path, snakes rustle near,
Thought infirm ne'er came between them,
With accordant steps, or gathering
Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moon
Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal
On a friendly deck reposing
They at length for Venice steer;
There, when they had closed their voyage,
One, who daily on the pier
Watched for tidings from the East, beheld his Lord, Fell down and clasped his knees for joy, not uttering word.
Mutual was the sudden transport;
Each word geedier than the last;
Say that I, who might have languished,
My Deliverer would present
For a crowning recompense, the precious grace
Of her who in my heart still holds her ancient place.
Make it known that my Companion
Is of royal eastern blood,
Thirsting after all perfection,
Innocent, and meek, and good,
Though with misbelievers bred; but that dark night Will holy Church disperse by beams of gospel
Swiftly went that gray-haired Servant,
Charged with greetings, benedictions,
For a sunny thought to cheer the Stranger's way, Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears allay.
And how blest the Reunited
While beneath their castle-walls, Runs a deafening noise of welcome!— Blest, though every tear that falls Doth in its silence of past sorrow tell,
And makes a meeting seem most like a dear farewell.
Through a haze of human nature,
While across her virgin cheek pure blushes strayed,
On the ground the weeping Countess
Pledge of an eternal band:
Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie,
Constant to the fair Armenian,
Gentle pleasures round her moved,
Like a tutelary spirit
Reverenced, like a sister, loved.
Christian meekness smoothed for all the path of life, Who, loving most, should wiseliest love, their only strife.
Mute memento of that union
In a Saxon church survives,
Where a cross-legged Knight lies sculptured As between two wedded WivesFigures with armorial signs of race and birth, And the vain rank the pilgrims bore while yet on
A WREN'S NEST.
AMONG the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren's
In snugness may compare.
No door the tenement requires,
And seldom needs a labored roof; Yet is it to the fiercest sun Impervious, and storm-proof.
So warm, so beautiful withal,
And when for their abodes they seek
The hermit has no finer eye
These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls,
There, to the brooding bird her mate
Or in sequestered lanes they build,
But still, where general choice is good,
And among fairest objects, some
This, one of those small builders proved
For She who planned the mossy lodge,
Had to a Primrose looked for aid
High on the trunk's projecting brow,
The treasure proudly did I show
To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain:
"Tis gone-a ruthless spoiler's prey,
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, "Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong.