And well could he his pilgrimage of taste Unfold,—and much they loved his fervid strain, While he each fair variety retraced Of climes, and manners, o’er the eastern main. Now happy Switzer’s hills,—romantic Spain,— Gay lilied fields of France,—or, more refined, The soft Ausonia’s monumental reign; Nor less each rural image he designed 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 llama-driver on Peruvia’s peak, Nor living voice nor motion marks around; But storks that to the boundless forest shriek, Or wild-cane arch high flung o’er gulf profound,[46] That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound. XVII. Pleased with his guest, the good man still would ply Each earnest question, and his converse court; But Gertrude, as she eyed 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 spared, and brought to me, who loved him as my own. XVIII. “Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful years These very walls his infant sports did see; But most I loved him when his parting tears Alternately bedewed my child and me: 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 consoled!” XIX. His face the wanderer 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 embraced the pair, Was never group more blest, in this wide world of care. XX. “And will ye pardon then,” replied the youth, “Your Waldegrave’s feignèd name, and false attire? I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth, The very fortunes of your house inquire; Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire Impart, and I my weakness all betray; For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire, I meant but o’er your tombs to weep a day, Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away. XXI.