Thine, HENRY, is the crime! 'tis thine to bear The aggravated weight of full despair; To wear the day in woe, the night in tears, And pass in penitence the joyless years: Guiltless in ignorance, my love-led eyes Knew not the monarch in the knight's disguise; Fraught with deceit th' insidious monarch came To blast his faithful subject's spotless name; To pay each service of old CLIFFORD's race With all the keenest anguish of disgrace! Of love he talk'd; abash'd my down-cast eye Nor seem'd to seek, nor yet had power to fly; Still, as he urg'd his suit, his wily art Told not his rank 'till victor o'er my heart: Ah, known too late! in vain my reason strove, Fame, honour, reason, all were lost in love. How heav'd thine artful breast the deep-drawn sigh? How spoke thy looks? how glow'd thine ardent eye? When skill'd in guile, that soft seductive tongue Talk'd of its truth, and CLIFFORD was undone. Oh, cursed hour of passion's maddening sway, Guilt which a life of tears must wash away! Gay as the morning lark no more I rose, No more each evening sunk to calm repose; No more in fearless innocence mine eye, Or met the glance, or turn'd it knew not why; No more my fingers struck the trembling lyre, No more I ran with joy to meet my sire; But guilt's deep poison ran through every vein, But stern reflection claim'd his ruthless reign; Still vainly seeking from myself to fly, In anxious guilt I shunn'd each friendly eye; A thousand torments still my steps pursue, And guilt, still lovely, haunts my soul with you. Harlot, adultress, each detested name, Stamps everlasting blots on CLIFFORD's fame! How can this wretch prefer the prayer to heaven? How, self-condemn'd, expect to be forgiven? And yet, fond Hope, with self-deluding art, Still sheds her opiate poison o'er my heart; Paints thee most wretched in domestick strife, Curst with a kingdom, and a royal wife; And vainly whispers comfort to my breast-- "I curst myself that HENRY might be blest." Too fond deluder! impotent thy power To whisper comfort in the mournful hour; Weak, vain seducer, Hope! thy balmy breath To soothe Reflection on the bed of death; To calm stern Conscience' self-afflicting care, Or ease the raging pangs of wild Despair. Why, nature, didst thou give this fatal face? Why heap with charms to load me with disgrace? Why bid mine eyes two stars of beauty move? Why form the melting soul too apt for love? Thy last best blessing meant, the feeling breast, Gave way to guilt, and poison'd all the rest; Now bound in sin's indissoluble chains, Fled are the charms, the guilt alone remains!