Page:The poetical works of Thomas Campbell.djvu/142

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XIX.Our virgins fed her with their kindly bowlsOf fever balm and sweet sagamité:But she was journeying to the land of souls,And lifted up her dying head to prayThat we should bid an ancient friend conveyHer orphan to his home of England's shore;And take, she said, this token far away,To one that will remember us of yore,When he beholds the ring that Waldegrave's Julia wore.
XX.And I, the eagle of my tribe, have rushedWith this lorn dove."—A sage's self-commandHad quelled the tears from Albert's heart that gushed;But yet his cheek—his agitated hand—That showered upon the stranger of the landNo common boon, in grief but ill beguiledA soul that was not wont to be unmanned;"And stay," he cried, "dear pilgrim of the wild,Preserver of my old, my boon companion's child!—
XXI.Child of a race whose name my bosom warms,On earth's remotest bounds how welcome here!Whose mother oft, a child, has filled these arms,Young as thyself, and innocently dear,Whose grandsire was my early life's compeer.Ah, happiest home of England's happy clime!How beautiful ev'n now thy scenes appear,As in the noon and sunshine of my prime!How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time!
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