For Truth and Pity then were young, And walk'd in simple, narrow bounds; Affection's meek, assuasive tongue, Had sweet, but most capricious sounds. Once, wild with scornful pride, she fled, And only turn'd to seek the dead! Oh! from a garden of delight, What fair memento did I bring! What amaranth of colours bright, To mark the promise of my spring? Behold this flow'r! its leaves are wet, With tears of lasting, vain regret! * * * * * THE DAUGHTER. 1797. "Come, mournful lute! dear echo of my woe! No stranger's tread in this lone spot I fear, Sweeter thy notes in such wild places flow, And, what is more, my Henry cannot hear! "He will not know my pain and my despair, When that dread scene arises on my view, Where my poor father would not hear my pray'r, Or grant his only child a last adieu! "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! "'Can happiness a purer joy receive, In the proud mansions of the rich and great? Or, tell me, can the wounded bosom heave With blunted anguish under robes of state! "'No! Henry, no! Alas! too well you know, The misery of an affected smile, The pain of clearing the thought-clouded brow, To covet for yourself the hateful toil! "'And since my choice, and reason both approve, Since I have known you many a circling year, And time has well assur'd me of your love, Tell me, my Henry, what have I to fear? "'My father, though by worldly prudence led, Will pardon when our happiness is told.' Alas! no curses fell upon my head, But never did he more his child behold. "He would not, dying, hear my ardent prayer! But, cruel! said, I leave her all my store; She wrung my doating heart with deep despair, And even now perhaps desires no more. "This is the stroke which all my peace destroys, The dagger which no art can draw away, The thought which every faculty employs, Withers my bloom, and makes my strength decay.