Oh! had fate plac'd amidst Earl CLIFFORD's hall Of menial vassals, me most mean of all; Low in my hopes, and homely rude my face, Nor form, nor wishes, rais'd above my place; How happy, ROSAMUND, had been thy lot, In peace to live unknown, and die forgot! Guilt had not then infix'd her piercing sting, Nor scorn revil'd the harlot of a king; Contempt had not revil'd my fallen fame, Nor infamy debas'd a CLIFFORD's name. Oh, CLIFFORD! oh, my sire! thy honours now Thy child has blasted on thine ancient brow; Fallen is that darling child from virtue's name, And thy grey hairs sink to the grave with shame! Still busy fancy bids the scene arise, Still paints the father to these wretched eyes; Methinks I see him now, with folded arms, Think of his child, and curse her fatal charms; Those charms, her ruin! that in happier days, With all a father's love, he lov'd to praise: Unkempt his hoary locks, his head hung low In all the silent energy of woe; Yet still the same kind parent, still all mild, He prays forgiveness for his sinful child. And yet I live! if this be life, to know The agonizing weight of hopeless woe: Thus far, remote from every friendly eye, To drop the tear, and heave the ceaseless sigh; Each dreadful pang remorse inflicts to prove, To weep and pray, yet still to weep and love: Scorn'd by the virgins of this holy dome, A living victim in the cloyster'd tomb, To pray, though hopeless, justice should forgive, Scorn'd by myself--if this be life--I live! Oft will remembrance, in her painful hour, Cast the keen glance to Woodstock's lovely bower: Recal each sinful scene of bliss to view, And give the soul again to guilt and you. Oh! I have seen thee trace the bower around, And heard the forest echo ROSAMUND; Have seen thy frantick looks, thy wildering eye, Heard the deep groan and bosom-rending sigh; Vain are the searching glance, the love-lorn groan, I live--but live to penitence alone; Depriv'd of every joy which life can give, Most vile, most wretched, most despis'd, I live. Too well thy deep regret, thy grief, are known, Too true I judge thy sorrows by my own! Oh! thou hast lost the dearest charm of life, The fondest, tenderest, loveliest, more than wife; One who, with every virtue, only knew The fault, if fault it be, of loving you; One whose soft bosom seem'd as made to share Thine every joy, and solace every care; For crimes like these secluded, doom'd to know The aggravated weight of guilt and woe.