Till chance had usher'd to its inmost ground
The stranger guest of many a distant clime;
He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound;
But late th' equator suns his cheek had tann'd,
And California's gales his roving bosom fann’d.—

XIII.

A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm,

He led dismounted; ere his leisure pace,
Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm,
Close he had come, and worshipp'd for a space
Those downcast features:-she her lovely face
Uplift on one whose lineaments and frame

Were youth and manhood's intermingled grace:
Iberian seem'd his boot-his robe the same,

And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became.

XIV.

For Albert's home he sought-her finger fair

Has pointed where the father's mansion stood.

Returning from the copse he soon was there;

And soon has Gertrude hied from dark green wood;
Nor joyless, by the converse, understood,

Between the man of age and pilgrim young,

That gay congeniality of mood,

And early liking from acquaintance sprung:

Full fluently convers'd their guest in England's tongue.

XV.

And well could he his pilgrimage of taste

Unfold,—and much they lov'd his fervid strain,—

While he each fair variety re-trac'd

Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main:

Now happy Switzer's hills,—romantic Spain,—

Gay lilied fields of France,—or, more refin’d,

The soft Ausonia's monumental reign;

Nor less each rural image he design'd,

Than all the city's pomp and home of human kind.

XVI.

Anon some wilder portraiture he draws;

Of Nature's savage glories he would speak,

The loneliness of earth that overawes,

Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique,

The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak,

Nor voice nor living motion marks around;

But storks that to the boundless forest shriek;

Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulph profound,

k

That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.

* The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are said to be built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery.

XVII.

Pleas'd with his guest, the good man still would ply
Each earnest question, and his converse court;

But Gertrude, as she ey'd him, knew not why

A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short.

• In England thou hast been,—and, by report,

An orphan's name (quoth Albert) may'st have known:

Sad tale!-when latest fell our frontier fort,

• One innocent-one soldier's child-alone

Was spar'd, and brought to me, who lov'd him as my own.—

XVIII.

Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful years

These walls his infant sports did see;

very

But most I lov'd him when his parting tears

Alternately bedew'd my child and me:

6

'His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee;

· Nor half its grief his little heart could hold:

By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea,

They tore him from us when but twelve years old,

And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consol'd.'

XIX.

His face the wand'rer hid;-but could not hide

A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell;

And speak, mysterious stranger!' (Gertrude cried)

It is!-it is!- I knew-I knew him well!

'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to tell!'

A burst of joy the father's lips declare;

But. Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell:

At once his open arms embrac'd the pair,

Was never group more blest, in this wide world of care,—