"Than hadst thou spoken in my mother-tongue, 10 Or worn the aspect of my father-race." Here to her eyes some tearful memory sprung, And youth's glad sunshine vanish'd from her face; Like the changed sky, the gleams of April leave, Or the quick coming of an Indian eve. Moved, yet embolden'd by that mild distress, 11 Near the fair shape the gentle Cymrian drew, Bent o'er the hand his pity dared to press, And soothed the sorrow ere the cause he knew. Frank were those times of trustful Chevisaunce,[1] And hearts when guileless open to a glance. So see them seated by the haunted lake, 12 She on the grassy bank, her sylvan throne, He at her feet--and out from every brake The Forest-Angels singing:--All alone With Nature and the Beautiful--and Youth Pure in each soul as, in her fountain, Truth! And thus her tale the Teuton maid begun: 13 "Daughter of Harold, Mercia's Earl, am I. Small need to tell to Knighthood's Christian son What creed of wrath the Saxons sanctify. With songs first chaunted in some thunder-field, Stern nurses rock'd me in my father's shield. "Motherless both,--my playmate, sole and sweet, 14 Years--sex, the same, was Crida's youngest child, (Crida, the Mercian Ealder-King) our feet Roved the same pastures when the Mead-month[2] smiled; By the same hearth we paled to Saga runes, When wolves descending howl'd to icy moons. "As side by side, two osiers o'er a stream, 15 When air is still, with separate foliage bend; But let a breezelet blow, and straight they seem With trembling branches into one to blend: So grew our natures,--when in calm, apart; But in each care, commingling, heart to heart. "Her soul was bright and tranquil as a bird 16 That hangs with silent wing in breathless heaven, The plumes of mine the faintest zephyr stirr'd, Light with each impulse by the moment given; Blithe as the insect of the summer hours, Child of the beam, and playmate of the flowers. "Thus into youth we grew, when Crida bore 17 Home from fierce wars a British Woman-slave, A lofty captive, who her sorrow wore As Queens a mantle; yet not proud, though grave, And grave as if with pity for the foe, Too high for anger, too resign'd for woe. "Our hearts grew haunted by that patient face, 18 And much we schemed to soothe the sense of thrall. She learn'd to love us,--let our love replace That she had lost,--and thank'd her God for all, Even for chains and bondage:--awed we heard, And found the secret in the Gospel Word.