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Rh

My mother's youthful heart was given To one an infidel to heaven; Alas! that ever earthly love Could turn her hope from that above; Yet surely 'tis for tears, not blame, To be upon that mother's name.

Well can I deem my father all That holds a woman's heart in thrall,— In truth his was as proud a form As ever stemm'd a battle storm, As ever moved first in the hall Of crowds and courtly festival. Upon each temple the black hair Was mix'd with grey, as early care Had been to him like age,—his eye, And lip, and brow, were dark and high;