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The gentle orphan, whose sweet sight more soothes My troubled soul, than aught in this wide world. I love her, for I know she needs my love, And something in her sadness suits with mine.

Welcome, my child! but how is this—the tears Are in thine eyes Sweet one, why hast thou wept?

My spirits are not good, my lord.

Thou art full young for sadness.

Ah, my lord, 'Tis not the old alone who know that life Has but a weary way.

My gentle child— For ev'n as a child art thou to me— Our life has many sorrows: and I think Most bitterly is sorrow felt in youth. Age comes and brings indifference: I grieve Not as I used to grieve—I know the worst Is but a painful dream that soon must pass.

Would I could think so!

Believe me, maiden, could we read the past In every heart, we should recoil to find What weight of misery has been endured.