HOLTROOD. 85
The arras, with its storied lore,
By her own busy needle wrought, The couch, where oft her throbbing brow
For sweet oblivion vainly sought ;
The basket, once with infant robes
So rich, her own serene employ, While o er each lovely feature glowed
A mother s yet untasted joy ;
The candelabra s fretted shaft,
Beside whose flickering midnight flame
In sad communion still she bent With genial France, from whence it came ;
Those sunny skies, those hearts refined, The wreaths that Love around her threw,
The homage of a kneeling realm, The misery of her last adieu !
Ah ! were her errors all resolved
To their first elemental fount, Must not her dark and evil times
Share deeply in the dire amount ?
We may not say ; we only know
Their record is with One on high, Who ne er the unuttered motive scans
With partial or vindictive eye.
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