His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee;
Nor half its grief his little heart could hold:
By kindred he was sent for o’er the sea,
They tore him from us when but twelve years old,
And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled!”
XIX.
His face the wanderer hid—but could not hide
A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell;—
“And speak! mysterious stranger!” Gertrude cried,
“It is!—it is!—I knew—I knew him well!