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Judge both Fugitives with knowledge:
In those old Romantic days
To support, or strain, or raise.
Thought infirm ne'er came between them,
Whether printing desert sands
Forest-fruit with social hands;
beam Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal
On a friendly deck reposing
They at length for Venice steer;
One, who daily on the pier
Mutual was the sudden transport;
Breathless questions followed fast,
Each word greedier than the last;
Say that I, who might have languished,
Drooped and pined till life was spent,
My Deliverer would present
Make it known that my Companion
Is of royal eastern blood,
Innocent, and meek, and good,
Swiftly went that gray-haired Servant,
Soon returned a trusty Page
Thanks and praises, each a gage
While beneath their castle-walls,
Blest, though every tear that falls
Through a haze of human nature,
Glorified by heavenly light,
On that overpowering sight,
blushes strayed, For every
tender sacrifice her heart had made.
On the ground the weeping Countess
Knelt, and kissed the Stranger's hand;
Pledge of an eternal band :
Constant to the fair Armenian,
Gentle pleasures round her moved,
Reverenced, like a sister, loved.
Mute memento of that union
In a Saxon church survives,
As between two wedded Wives-
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,
In perfect fitness for its aim, That to the Kind by special grace
Their instinct surely came.
And when for their abodes they seek
An opportune recess,
For shadowy quietness.
These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls,
A canopy in some still nook ; Others are pent-housed by a brae
That overhangs a brook.
There, to the brooding bird her mate
Warbles by fits his low clear song; And by the busy streamlet both
Are sung to all day long.
Or in sequestered lanes they build,
Where, till the flitting bird's return, Her eggs within the nest repose,
Like relics in an urn.
But still, where general choice is good,
There is a better and a best; And among fairest objects, some
Are fairer than the rest ;
This, one of those small builders proved
In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak,
The leafy antlers sprout;
For She who planned the mossy lodge,
Mistrusting her evasive skill, Had to a Primrose looked for aid
Her wishes to fulfil ;
High on the trunk's projecting brow,
above The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest
The prettiest of the grove!
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:
"T is gone-a ruthless spoiler's prey,
Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'T is gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved
Indignant at the wrong.