"'Oppose them? No! I did not dare! I am not as a many are, Ruling themselves: my spirits fly, My force expires before reply. Instinctively a coward, free In speech, in act, I could not be With any in my life, but thee! Nor strength, nor power do I possess, Except, indeed, to bear distress! Except to pour the aching sigh, Which only can my pain relieve; Inhuman ye who ask me why, And pause, to wonder that I grieve: Mine are the wounds which never close, Mine is a deep, untiring care; A horror flying from repose, A weight the sickening soul must bear. The tears that from these eyelids flow, The sad confusion of my brain, All waking phantoms of its woe, Your anger, and the world's disdain,-- Seek not to sooth me!--they are sent This feeble frame and heart to try! It is establish'd, be content! They never leave me till I die!' "So little here is understood, So little known the great and good, The deep regret that Eustace prov'd, Brought home conviction that he lov'd To many: others thought, her dower, The loss of lordships, wealth, and power, Full cause for sorrow; and the king Hop'd he might consolation bring, And bind a wavering servant o'er, (Not found too loyal heretofore,) By linking his sole daughter's fate In wedlock with an English mate-- His favourite too! whose own domain Spread over valley, hill, and plain; Whose far-trac'd lineage did evince A birth-right worthy of a prince; Whose feats of arms, whose honour, worth, Were even nobler than his birth; Who, in his own bright self, did bring A presence worthy of a king-- A form to catch and charm the eye, Make proud men gracious, ladies sigh; The boldest, wisest, and the best, Greater than each presuming guest;-- I speak from judgment, not from love,-- In all endowments far above Who tastes this day of festal cheer, And whom his death assembles here! "That he is known those look avow, The mantling cheek, the knitting brow: I could not hope it did he live, But now, O! now, ye must forgive! Most recreant they who dare offend One who has lost her only friend! De Stafford's widow here appears-- For him, my Eustace, flow these tears! Ye may not blame me! ye have wives, Who yet may sorrow for your lives! Who, in the outset of their grief, Upon a father's neck may spring; Or find in innocence relief, And to a cherish'd infant cling; Or thus, like me, forlornly shed Their lonely wailing o'er the dead!