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But still and thoughtful, at her knee, Her children stood that hour, Their bursts of song and dancing glee, Hush'd as by words of power. With bright, fix'd, wondering eyes that gaz'd   Up to their mother's face, With brows thro' parted ringlets rais'd,   They stood in silent grace.

While she yet something o'er her look Of mournfulness was spread— Forth from a poet's magic book, The glorious numbers read; The proud undying lay, which pour'd   Its light on evil years; His of the gifted pen and sword,* The triumph—and the tears.