“The envy of th’ oppressor’s eye hath been
Upon my heritage. I sit to-night
Under my household tree, if not serene,
Yet with the faces best beloved in sight:
To-morrow eve may find me chain’d, and thee—
How can I bear the boy’s young smiles to see?”
The bright blood left that youthful mother’s cheek;
Back on the linden stem she lean’d her form;
And her lip trembled as it strove to speak,
Like a frail harp-string shaken by the storm.