Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1835.pdf/18

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only child within the tent, Beneath the old fir-tree: How pleasantly his days were spent— The young, the glad, the free.

Not rosy, like an English child: His cheek was dark and pale, And black the long straight hair that wild Was toss'd upon the gale.

And yet the child was beautiful, And graceful as the fawn, That at the noontide stoops to pull The grass of some wood lawn.

He sat beside his mother's knee The long and lonely day, While, seeking where the deer might be, His father was away.

He loved to hear her mournful song, Her song of love and fear; And never seem'd the day too long With that sweet listener near.

At night it was a cheerful thing To watch their hunter craft; With feathers from the eagle's wing They plumed the slender shaft.

Listened the child with eager joy To all his father told— Who'd watch his eyes and say, "my boy    Will be a hunter bold."

But showers are on a sunny sky, And sorrow follows mirth; The shadow of the grave was nigh To that devoted hearth.