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Of joy and grief on our lives' harpsichords.
And yet, meseems, 't is better after all,
That finds my sorrow in its utterance
A slight relief, and in thy sympathy
A soothing balm. So hear then my account.
Knowing full well my stout fidelity
To Texas and her cause,—suspecting, too.
My father's loyalty, though without grounds,
The tyrant must have had us watched by spies,
Hid near our tent, to hear what there was spoken.
When ere my father's journey to this fort
I made a new but vain attempt (alas!
It proved the last!) to rouse his love of right,
When on my knees I warned him 'gainst his friends
And told him of the hidden passage-way
Through which he yet could reach the Port of Honor,
This our converse must have been overheard
And brought to Santa Anna's ears. Meanwhile,
Upon my prayer to tend thy brother James,
The tyrant—under the pretence to grant it,
But in reality to wrest from me
Through threats and force my secret's dear possession,—
Had me conducted to thy brother's cot
In Mission of Concepcion. Fine his plan,
Yet finer God's, who made the villain's scheme
The instrument of my deliverance.
For know, Concepcion is the very place
Where lies the entrance to the hidden way.