"He went his rounds.--The duty done, His mind still tending toward his son; With spirit and with heart deprest, A judgment unsustain'd by rest;-- Fainting in effort, and at strife With feelings woven into life; And with the chains of being twin'd By links so strong, though undefin'd, They curb or enervate the brain, Weigh down by languor, rack by pain, And spread a thousand subtil ties Across the tongue, and through the eyes; Till the whole frame is fancy vext, And all the powers of mind perplext. "What wonder, then, it sunk and fail'd! What wonder that your plans prevail'd! In vain by stratagem you toil'd;-- His skill and prudence all had foil'd; For one day's vigilance surpast Seeming perfection in the last. Each hour more active, more intent, Unarm'd and unassail'd he went; While every weapon glanc'd aside, His armour every lance defied. The blow that could that soul subdue At length was struck--but not by you! It fell upon a mortal part-- A poison'd arrow smote his heart; The winds impelling, when they bore Wrecks of the vessel to our shore! "Oh! ever dear! and ever kind! What madness could possess thy mind, From me, in our distress, to fly? True, much delight had left my eye; And, in the circle of my bliss, One holy, rapturous joy to miss Was mine!--Yet I had more than this, Before my wounds were clos'd, to bear! See thee, an image of despair, Just rush upon my woe, then shun Her who alike deplor'd a son; And, ere alarm had taken breath, Be told, my husband, of thy death! And feel upon this blighted sphere No tie remain to bind me here! Still in my life's young summer see A far and weary path to thee! Along whose wild and desert way No sportive tribes of fancy play; No smiles that to the lips arise, No joys to sparkle in the eyes;-- No thrills of tenderness to feel, No spring of hope, no touch of zeal. All sources of heart-feeling stopt, All impulse, all sustainment dropt. With aching memory, sinking mind, Through this drear wilderness to find The path to death;--and pining, roam Myriads of steps to reach the tomb! Of which to catch a distant view, The softest line, the faintest hue, As symbol when I should be free, Were happiness too great for me!" Here clos'd at once, abrupt, the lay! The Minstrel's fingers ceas'd to play! And, all her soul to anguish given, Doubted the pitying care of Heaven. But evil, in its worst extreme, In its most dire, impending hour, Shall vanish, like a hideous dream, And leave no traces of its power!