Her little boy beside her played, 4
With sea-shells in his hand;
And sometimes, 'mid the bents delayed,
And sometimes running onward, said,
Oh, where is Holy Land!
My child, she cried, my prattler dear! 5
And kissed his light-brown hair;
Her eyelid glistened with a tear,
And none but God above could hear,
That hour, her secret prayer.
As thus she nursed her secret woes, 6
Oft to the wind and rain
She listened, at sad autumn's close,
Whilst many a thronging shadow rose,
Dark-glancing o'er her brain.
Now lonely to the cloudy height 7
Of the steep hill she strays;
Below, the raven wings his flight,
And often on the screaming kite
She sees the wild deer gaze.
The clouds were gathered on its brow, 8
The warring winds were high;
She heard a hollow voice, and now
She lifts to heaven a secret vow,
Whilst the king of the storm rides by.
Seated on a craggy rock, 9
What aged man appears!
There is no hind, no straggling flock;
Comes the strange shade my thoughts to mock,
And shake my soul with fears?
Fast drive the hurrying clouds of morn; 10
A pale man stands confessed;
With look majestic, though forlorn,
A mirror in his hand, and horn
Of ivory on his breast.
Daughter of grief, he gently said, 11
And beckoned her: come near;
Now say, what would you give to me,
If you brave Hoel's form might see,
Or the sound of his bugle hear!
Hoel, my love, where'er thou art, 12
All England I would give,[137]
If, never, never more to part,
I now could hold thee to my heart,
For whom alone I live!
He placed the white horn to her ear, 13
And sudden a sweet voice
Stole gently, as of fairies near,
While accents soft she seemed to hear,
Daughter of grief, rejoice!