HOME OF THE DUELLIST.
The mother sat beside her fire,
Well trimm'd it was and bright,
While loudly moan'd the forest-pines
Amid that wintry night.
She heard them not, those wind-swept pines,
For o'er a scroll she hung,
That bore her husband's voice of love,
As when that love was young.
And thrice her son, beside her knee,
Besought her favouring eye,
And thrice her lisping daughter spoke,
Before she made reply.
"O, little daughter, many a kiss
Lies in this treasured line;
And, boy, a father's blessed prayers,
And counsels fond, are thine.
"Thou hast his high and arching brow,
Thou hast his eye of flame;
And be the purpose of thy soul,
Thy sun-bright course, the same."
And, as she drew them to her arms,
Down her fair cheek would glide
