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12 Tracking them to the secret wood, Tore limb from limb their innocent child, And stabbed and trampled on it's mother; But the youth, for God's most holy grace, A priest saved to burn in the market-place.

Duly at evening Helen came; To this lone silent spot, From the wrecks of a tale of wilder sorrow So much of sympathy to borrow As soothed her own dark lot. Duly each evening from her home, With her fair child would Helen come To sit upon that antique seat, While the hues of day were pale; And the bright boy beside her feet Now lay, lifting at intervals His broad blue eyes on her; Now, where some sudden impulse calls Following. He was a gentle boy And in all gentle sports took joy; Oft in a dry leaf for a boat,