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The mother turn'd—a way-worn man, In pilgrim-garb stood nigh, Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, Of proud yet mournful eye. But drops which would not stay for pride, From that dark eye gush'd free, As pressing his pale brow, he cried, "Forgotten! ev'n by thee!

"Am I so changed? and yet we two   Oft hand in hand have play'd;— This brow hath been all bath'd in dew,    From wreaths which thou hast made; We have knelt down and said one prayer,    And sung one vesper-strain; My soul is dim with clouds of care—    Tell me those words again!