Not so with Lora, trouble, sickness, death, Were busy with the residue of peace, When years and care had weaken'd her regrets, Veil'd the sad recollection of past days, And overgrown the softness of her mind, As the close-creeping ivy hides and rusts The smooth and silver surface of the beech. An orphan and a widow--she became Decisive, watchful, prudent, nay severe To wilful disobedience or neglect; Though generous where she perceiv'd desert. She taught her children with unceasing zeal, Sought knowledge for their sakes, and, more than all, Anxious, inquisitive about the heart, Search'd all the motives, all the incidents In which it was unfolded; fencing still Each treacherous failing with a double guard, And oft repeated warnings; well conceal'd, Or given with so much kindness, that they serv'd To draw more closely every knot of love. Nor did she cease to urge her pious cares By constant vigilance, till riper age Had fix'd the moral sense, when, as a bow For a long active season tightly strain'd Relaxes, tumult and contention o'er, She sunk into indulgence, glad to yield To mildness, nature, and herself again. Youth, e'en when wise and good, requires a change, Delights in novelty, and hears of nought Which suddenly it asks not to behold; And Lora's children oft assail'd her ear To let them journey to some rumour'd scene, Some feast, or village wake, or sprightly dance, Urging her still to bear them company. She lov'd to give them pleasure, and one time (The fav'rite legend of our country folk Hath oft the tale repeated) as they mix'd Carelessly in the crowd, remember'd notes Struck by a harper in a distant tent, Sweet and soul-piercing as the midnight songs Which are, they say, the harbingers of death, Flow'd on her ear--when, with impulsive spring, As if a magic spell had wing'd her feet, Fearing the sounds would vanish into air, And prove delusion ere she reach'd the spot, She forward rush'd, and soon beheld the friend, The dear companion of her youth. She seiz'd The hand that lay upon the quivering chords, Stopping their melody and resting mute. The pause was awful--He at length exclaim'd, In a deep, laboured cry, "Ye heavenly powers! If Lora lives, the hand I feel is hers!" She could not speak, but with her other hand Clasp'd his, and sigh'd and rais'd her eyes to heaven, When straight the big, round tears began to flow; "And is it thee, dear Lora! Art thou come Again to gladden one, who never found 'Mid countless who are good, a heart like thine! Oh! speak! that I may know if still my ear Retains a true remembrance of that voice! For since, it has not drank so sweet a sound."