She drew me softly nigh her chair,

My head upon her knees to lay,

With cool hands that caressed my hair.

[17]

She sat with hands as if to bless,

And looked with grave, ethereal eyes;

Ensouled by ancient quietness,

A gentle priestess of the Wise.

A WOMAN'S VOICE

His head within my bosom lay,

But yet his spirit slipped not through:

I only felt the burning clay

That withered for the cooling dew.

It was but pity when I spoke

And called him to my heart for rest,

And half a mother's love that woke

Feeling his head upon my breast:

And half the lion's tenderness

To shield her cubs from hurt or death,

Which, when the serried hunters press,

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