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by her touching voice again. —They had been praying her to wake the lute: She would not, wayward in her mood that night; When some one bade her mark a little sketch I brought from England of my father's hall; Himself was outlined leaning by an oak, A greyhound at his feet. "And is this dog Your father's sole companion?"—with these words She touch'd the strings:—that melancholy song, I never may forget its sweet reproach. —She ask'd me how I had the heart to leave The old man in his age; she told how lorn Is solitude; she spoke of the young heart Left in its loneliness, where it had known No kindness but from strangers, forced to be Wayfarer in this bleak and bitter world,