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    My mother's youthful heart was given
    To one an infidel to heaven;
    Alas! that ever earthly love
    Could turn her hope from that above;
    Yet surely 'tis for tears, not blame,
    To be upon that mother's name.

        Well can I deem my father all
    That holds a woman's heart in thrall,—
    In truth his was as proud a form
    As ever stemm'd a battle storm,
    As ever moved first in the hall
    Of crowds and courtly festival.
    Upon each temple the black hair
    Was mix'd with grey, as early care
    Had been to him like age,—his eye,
    And lip, and brow, were dark and high;