At length she rose; and, taking tenderly
My hand in hers, said, "Shall we part, my child?"
My tears were readier than my words as we sat
Together in the dim and holy eve,
And then my mother told me that her heart
Had long been opened to the truths divine
The German Luther taught; and by that faith
Had my departed father died in hope.
The tie was broken now that bound to France,
And she desired to see her native land,
Own the true creed, and die. "My Agatha,"
She said, in her own sweet peculiar tone,
"Read you the pages which I offer now,
And then decide." I kissed the silver clasp
Of the small Bible:—Bertha, from that hour
It has to me been as a bosom friend!
We sought this castle; and our pilgrimage
Brought its own blessing. Years have passed away
In our most dear home circle; and we trace,
Each day succeeding, an accustomed round
Of duties, pleasures, charities, and cares,
Which make their own delight. My mother's age,
How beautiful it is!—such deep repose!—
Solemn as if the shadow of the grave
Were resting on it; yet rejoiced to stay,
For my sake and for yours—her orphan charge!
Though faint the pilgrim, yet the heart is strong.
Bertha, my soul, the contrite and subdued,
