Yet oft the while--to watch without the door, The brother's step glides noiseless o'er the floor,-- There meekly waits, until the welcome ray Of Lucy's smile gives comfort to the day, Till Lucy's whisper murmurs, "Be of cheer," And Pity dupes Affection's willing ear. Once, and but once, within the room he crept, When all was silent, and they deem'd she slept, Not softer to the infant's cradle steals The mother's step;--she hears not, yet she feels, As by strange instinct, the approach;--her frame Convulsed and shuddering as he nearer came; Till the wild cry,--the waiving hand convey The frantic prayer, so bitter to obey; And with stern brow, belying the wrung heart, And voiceless lips compress'd, he turns him to depart. VIII. Much wondering Lucy mused,--nor yet could find Why one so mournful shrunk from one so kind. Awe that had chill'd the gratitude she felt For Morvale, now in pity learn'd to melt: This tender patience in a man so stern, This love untiring--fear the sole return, This rough exterior, with this gentle breast, Awoke a sympathy that would not rest; The wistful eye, the changing lip, the tone Whose accents droop'd, or gladden'd, from her own, Haunted the woman's heart, which ever heaves Its echo back to every sound that grieves. Light as the gossamer its tissue spins O'er freshest dews when summer morn begins, Will Fancy weave its airy web above The dews of Pity, in the dawn of Love.-- At length, Calantha's reason wakes;--the strife Calms back,--the soul re-settles to the life. Freed from her post, flies Lucy to rejoice The anxious heart, so wistful for her voice; Not at his wonted watch the brother found, She seeks his door--no answer to her sound; She halts in vain, till, eager to begin The joyous tale, the bright shape glides within. For the first time beheld, she views the lone And gloomy rooms the master calls his own; Not there the luxury elsewhere, which enthralls With pomp the gazer in the rich man's halls; Strange arms of Eastern warfare, quaintly piled, Betray'd the man's fierce memory of the child,-- And litter'd books, in mystic scrolls enshrined The solemn Sibyl of the elder Ind. The girl treads fearful on the dismal floors, And with amazed eye the gloomy lair explores; Thus, as some Peri strays where, couch'd in cells With gods dethroned, the brooding Afrite dwells, From room to room her fairy footsteps glide, Till, lo! she starts to see him by her side.-- With crimson cheek, and downcast eyes, that quail Beneath his own, she hurries the glad tale, Then turns to part--but as she turns, still round She looks,--and lingers on the magic ground, And eyes each antique relic with the wild Half-pleased, half-timorous, wonder of a child; And as a child's the lonely inmate saw, And smiled to see the pleasure and the awe; And soften'd into kindness his deep tone,