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He saw how deeply fear'd To touch a wound not heal'd but sear'd: His gentle care was not in vain, And learn'd to think again Of hope, if not of happiness; And soon his bosom pined to press The child whom he so long had left An orphan doubly thus bereft. He mark'd with what enamour'd tongue on mention hung,— The softened tone, the downward gaze, All that so well the heart betrays; And a reviving future stole Like dew and sunlight on his soul.

Soon the Crusaders would be met Where winter's rest from war was set;