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Either by kindred or by social ties; 
A stranger came she, and such still remain’d; 
For though each kindly act of neighbourhood 
She took and gave with seemliest courtesy, 
Companionship she sought not: her sweet boy, 
And her own thoughts, seem’d all the world to her. 
She look’d like one who had seen better days, 
Such, too, her manners shov’d : her pallid brow 
Wore traces more of sorrow than of time, 
But what her cause of grief she never told : 
This much her garb reveal’d — that she had kept 
A widow’s vigils. shed a widow's tears. 
Seldom she smil’d, save when her blooming boy, 
Now her sole earthly prop, some tale would tell 
With childhood’s sweet, beguiling playfulness, 
Or when at his close suit she shared some game 
Which call’d perforce for two; then would she try 
To throw aside her gentle pensiveness, 
And give him answering smiles. As for the child,— 
He doated on his mother. Acts, not words, 
Were his o’erflowing heart’s interpreters ; 
When village clocks announced a double boon. 
Freedom alike to scholar and to master, 
He play’d not with his mates upon the green, 
But hasten’d home to trim the garden plot. 
