Had quelled the tears from Albert’s heart that gushed;
But yet his cheek—his agitated hand—
That showered upon the stranger of the land
No common boon, in grief but ill beguiled
A 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?