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 And feel thy presence near; And yet when he, regardful of her ease, Had led her back by brightening hall and stair To her own chamber's quietude and peace, One maple-bowered window shook with rare, Sweet song—and thou wert there!

Hunter of souls! the loving chase so nigh Those spirits twain had never come before. They saw the sacred flame within thine eye; To them the maple's depths quick glory wore, As though God's hand had lit His altar-fire in it, And made a fane, of virgin verdure pleached, Wherefrom thou might'st in numbers musical Expound the age-sweet words thy Francis preached To thee and thine, of God's benignant thrall That broodeth over all.

And they, athirst for comfort, sipped thy song, But drank not yet thy deeper homily. Not yet, but when parturient pangs grew strong, And from its cell the young soul struggled free— A new joy, trailing grief, A little crumpled leaf, Blighted before it burgeoned from the stem— Thou, as the fabled robin to the rood, Wert minister of charity to them; And from the shadows of sad parenthood They heard and understood.

Makes God one soul a lure for snaring three? Ah! surely; so this nursling of the nest,