The sun looked down on fair Liege,
And it was market-day:
The bosom of the rushing Meuse
Was gleaming bright and gay.
The peasant girls thronged in to church.
To pray as they went by:
Alas! that such a sight should seem
So strange to an English eye.
The notes of a familiar air
From off the bridge were borne;
'Twas played by an Italian boy,
Who came from soft Leghorn.

Oh, Charles! I started at the sound,—
For I learnt that tune from thee;
And the thought of what thou wert, and art,
Was bitterness to me.
How happily the days were spent,
And ever with each other,
When thou at school didst make of me
A sort of elder brother.
But thou hast wandered, Charles, since then,
And art a wanderer still,
Where pleasure never hath been found,—
And never, never will.
I've followed thee, with prayers and tears,
Through many a haunt of sin:
But all in vain; thy truant soul
Those prayers could never win.

Though of thy boyish feelings now
But few are left to thee,
Thy heart, thy fiery heart doth beat
As quick and fresh for me.
They tell me that I should not love
Where I can not esteem:
But do not fear them; for to me
False wisdom doth it seem.
Nay,—rather I should love thee more
The further thou dost rove;
For what prayers are effectual,
If not the prayers of love?
I did thee not the good I might
In schoolboy days of yore,
And much, I fear, of this thy guilt
Is lying at my door.

My sins rise up before me now;
And sadly true it proves,
A loving heart too faithfully
Will copy those it loves.
And thus it is that years of vice
Are gendered in an hour:
Oh, Christ!—our very souls are put
In one another's power!