Eltruda, o'er the distant mead,
Would haste, at closing day,
And to the bleating mother lead
The lamb, that chanc'd to stray.
For the bruis'd insect on the waste,
A sigh would heave her breast;
And oft her careful hand replac'd
The linnet's falling nest.
To her, sensations calm as these
Could sweet delight impart;
These simple pleasures most can please
The uncorrupted heart.
Full oft with eager step she flies
To cheer the roofless cot,
Where the lone widow breathes her sighs,
And wails her desp'rate lot.
Their weeping mother's trembling knees,
Her lisping infants clasp;
Their meek, imploring look she sees,
She feels their tender grasp.
Wild throbs her aching bosom swell--
They mark the bursting sigh,
(Nature has form'd the soul to feel)
They weep, unknowing why.
Her hands the lib'ral boon impart,
And much her tear avails
To raise the mourner's drooping heart,
Where feeble utterance fails.
On the pale cheek, where hung the tear
Of agonizing woe,
She bids the cheerful bloom appear,
The tear of rapture flow.
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