Which thou wilt learn to love. I heard the boy
Chanting it o’er his solitary task,
As wails a wood-bird to the thrilling leaves,
Perchance unconsciously.
Agnes. My gentle son!
The affectionate, the gifted! With what joy—
Edmund, rememberest thou?—with what bright joy
His baby brother ever to his arms
Would spring from rosy sleep, and playfully
Hide the rich clusters of his gleaming hair