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Alone on the heather a fair child
was straying, Whose innocent features were brighten'd with joy, And as 'mid the flowers he careless was playing, My heart yearn'd with love, and I spoke to the boy. "Young stranger, whence art thou?" his blue eyes upturning, He answer'd, "My home is yon tent on the plain, And ere the eve closes I must be returning, Or they will not let me roam hither again." "Do thy parents await thee?" He paused, and the gladness That mantled his brow was o'ershadowed in gloom: "I saw them but once," and he added with sadness, "They tell me that both are asleep in the tomb; The gipsy was kind, but my mother was fonder, She sang me so softly to rest in her arms; But now she is gone, and her darling must wander, Though the soft words she wisper'd my bosom still warms. "And soon will I seek them where both are reposing, And take my best flowers to plant by there side, That summer when all her bright tints are enclosing, May bless the green turf with their beauty and pride." He bounded away, as my tears were fast falling To think how the gipsy such love had beguiled; I saw him no more, but the sad tale recalling, I often remember the poor stolen child. |