This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.

95



He will not know that still the hour I mourn,
When death all hopes of pardon snatch'd away;
That still this heart by sad remembrance torn,
Repeats the dreadful mandate of that day.

Luckless for him has been my constant love,
Luckless the destiny I bade him brave,
For since a parent did our vows reprove,
Sorrow was all the gift my fondness gave.

Then, though I knew my father's stern command,
The short-liv'd conflict of affection o'er,
I offer'd to the youth my dowerless hand,
And fondly reason'd thus on being poor,

"Can pomp or splendour elevate the soul,
Brighten the lustre that illumes the eye!
Make the rough stream of life more smoothly roll,
Suppress the tear, or waft away the sigh!