Chapter 11

⁠​​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌⁠I boast no song in magic wonders rife;

But yet, O Nature! is there nought to prize,

Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life?

And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies

No form with which the soul may sympathize?

⁠​​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌⁠Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild

The parted ringlet shone in simplest guise,

An inmate in the home of Albert smiled,

Or blessed his noonday walk,—she was his only child.

Gertrude of