Her cheek had often felt the blush of shame, At his proud boasting; and her heart had sunk At the cold arrogance that scorn'd the poor; But she was fain to turn aside, and weep, To wring her hands in secret, and to raise The eye of silent anguish up to heaven; For though he dearly lov'd her, he would ne'er Submit to hear a murmur at his will. Oft with her heart oppress'd, and her blue eyes Full of unshedden tears, she bent her way Alone to Osborne's lowly cot, and when Her faint voice call'd the fond inquiry forth, Would say, "'tis true, my friends, that I am sad, Nay sick, with vain repining. O! I wish, That I were either indigent myself, Or that I had the power, the blessed power Of cheering the unhappy! for I want, By kindness to prevent the act of guilt, And ward the arrows of incroaching Death, Who comes, before the time, upon his prey. Think that there should be means to stay his wrath, To purchase health, life, comfort, innocence, And yet those means withholden! "O! my heart! It dies with sorrow! and where most I love, Sheds all its bitterness; delighting still To tell the many miseries that flit At times across me! Those I lightly prize Partake the sunshine of my happier hours, Although I seek them with far less delight! The loud laugh dwells not here, the sportive dance, The carol of unconscious levity, And yet how oft, how willingly I come!" "Know'st thou not, Lora," cried the youthful sage, "That there are things the mind must prize above What captivates the senses! That in them She feels no interest, and she takes no care! That though sometimes an alien, she receives Delighted back the ensigns of her power, And takes her truant vassals into grace! That when thou bring'st to us that wounded mind, The grave of many feelings, language is As yet too poor to utter, thou canst give No richer, dearer token of regard." "Were man indeed the only hope of man, I never would reprove thee for thy tears! But, they are vain! man has a surer trust! The helpless, weary, miserable wretch, Left by his fellows in the wilderness, Shall be supported in that trying hour, By a right arm, which, in his days of strength, He did not lean upon! A gracious arm, Which wounds the sick, and heals them by the stroke. O! Lora! to the Father of the world, A Judge so patient and so merciful. That he refuses not the latest sigh. Nor suffers sorrow but as means to save, Canst thou not trust the objects of thy care!