Long had she knock’d without—but, dead to all
Save her own grief, the mourner did not hear.
At last she ventured in, and reaching forth
Her venerable arms, she clasp’d them round
The mourner, sobbing out—“My poor dear child!”
Lo! at these magic words of pity, she
Who could not weep before, is weeping now
Upon the dear old lady’s bosom. Yes!
Her arms are tightly clasp’d around her neck,
As though she were her mother; and her head