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A stranger thro' them broke:—the orphan maid With her sweet voice, and proffer'd hand of aid, Turn'd to give welcome; but a wild sad look Met hers; a gaze that all her spirit shook; And that pale woman, suddenly subdued By some strong passion in its gushing mood, Knelt at her feet, and bath'd them with such tears As rain the hoarded agonies of years From the heart's urn; and with her white lips press'd The ground they trod; then, burying in her vest Her brow's deep flush, sobb'd out—"Oh! undefiled! I am thy mother—spurn me not, my child!"

Isaure had pray'd for that lost mother; wept O'er her stain'd memory, while the happy slept In the hush'd midnight; stood with mournful gaze Before yon picture's smile of other days, But never breath'd in human ear the name Which weigh'd her being to the earth with shame.