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Rocking beneath the cedars to and fro, As the wind pass'd, and with a fitful glow Lighting the victim's face:—But who could tell Of what within his secret heart befel, Known but to heaven that hour?—Perchance a thought Of his far home then so intensely wrought, That its full image, pictured to his eye On the dark ground of mortal agony, Rose clear as day!—and he might see the band, Of his young sisters wandering hand in hand, Where the laburnums droop'd; or haply binding The jasmine, up the door's low pillars winding; Or, as day clos'd upon their gentle mirth, Gathering with braided hair, around the hearth Where sat their mother;—and that mother's face Its grave sweet smile yet wearing in the place Where so it ever smiled!—Perchance the prayer Learn'd at her knee came back on his despair;