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 e’en now thy scenes appear,
As in the noon and sunshine of my prime!
How gone like yesterday these thrice ten years of time!
XXII.
“And, Julia! when thou wert like Gertrude now,
Can I forget thee, favourite child of yore?