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36

WOLFE OF THE KNOLL.

In her dark, heavy tresses shone
A burnished light, as if the sun
Had softly kissed the glossy hair,
And left his golden radiance there ;
Proving that gleam, so strange inwrought
In the deep twilight of her braids.
From a Circassian mother caught.
With curls as bright as Saxon maids.
But she is gone ; the fairy child,
Half passionate, half angel-mild,
No kin doth know, save him who now
So gently smooths her snowy brow.
And next an ancient nurse she loves,
And then her song-birds, flowers and doves.
At first she little marks the crowd
Of captives chained and sorrow-bowed,
(For she was wont from infancy
The witness of such scenes to be,)
And vith impatience ill-repressed.
Waits for the troop to be dismissed,