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TWO BROTHERS
O poor, my Mother! Soon, they say,
She hid herself with her child away,
And looked no longer on the day;
But sometimes, when our towers were white,—
Bathed in the moon's celestial light,—
Her casement opened on the night
All tremulous with mystery,
And, motionless, without a sigh,
She stood there, gazing on the sky;
And they who saw her then, declare
There was nor pride nor passion there,—
Only a tearless, mute despair.
I knew her not,—or if I knew,
Forgot her quickly, as children do,—
Alas! as little children do;
But when she died, men say that I
So plaintive wailed in the chamber nigh,
That summoned thither by the cry.
They brought my brother; who, that hour,
Bore me away to this lonely tower—
This fortress of our ancient power,
