Domestic bliss, unvex’d by strife,
  Beguil’d the circling hours;
She, who on every path of life
  Can shed perennial flowers.

Eltruda, o’er the distant mead,
  Would haste, at closing day,
And to the bleating mother lead
  The lamb, that chanc’d to stray.

For the bruis’d insect on the waste,
  A sigh would heave her breast;
And oft her careful hand replac’d
  The linnet’s falling nest.

To her, sensations calm as these
  Could sweet delight impart;
These simple pleasures most can please
  The uncorrupted heart.

Full oft with eager step she flies
  To cheer the roofless cot,
Where the lone widow breathes her sighs,
  And wails her desp’rate lot.

Their weeping mother’s trembling knees,
  Her lisping infants clasp;
Their meek, imploring look she sees,
  She feels their tender grasp.

Wild throbs her aching bosom swell—­
  They mark the bursting sigh,
(Nature has form’d the soul to feel)
  They weep, unknowing why.

Her hands the lib’ral boon impart,
  And much her tear avails
To raise the mourner’s drooping heart,
  Where feeble utterance fails.

On the pale cheek, where hung the tear
  Of agonizing woe,
She bids the cheerful bloom appear,
  The tear of rapture flow.

Thus on soft wing the moments flew,
  (Tho’ love implor’d their stay)
While some new virtue rose to view,
  And mark’d each fleeting day.

The youthful poet’s soothing dream
  Of golden ages past;
The muse’s fond, ideal theme,
  Was realiz’d at last.

But vainly here we hope, that bliss
  Unchanging will endure;
Ah, in a world so vain as this,
  What heart can rest secure!

For now arose the fatal day
  For civil discord fam’d;
When York, from Lancaster’s proud sway,
  The regal sceptre claim’d.

Each moment now the horrors brought
  Of desolating rage;
The fam’d atchievements now were wrought,
  That swell th’ historic page.

The good old Albert pants, again
  To dare the hostile field,
The cause of Henry to maintain,
  For him, the launce to wield.

But oh, a thousand gen’rous ties,
  That bind the hero’s soul;
A thousand tender claims arise,
  And Edwin’s breast controul.

Tho’ passion pleads in Henry’s cause,
  And Edwin’s heart would sway;
Yet honour’s stern, imperious laws,
  The brave will still obey.

Oppress’d with many an anxious care,
  Full oft Eltruda sigh’d;
Complaining that relentless war
  Should those she lov’d—­divide.

At length the parting morn arose,
  In gloomy vapours drest;
The pensive maiden’s sorrow flows,
  And terror heaves her breast.

A thousand pangs the father feels,
  A thousand rising fears,
While clinging at his feet she kneels,
  And bathes them with her tears.