“With Pity’s softer-flowing strain,
    Awake thy sleeping wires again! 
    For she must somewhere wander near,
    In following danger, death, and fear! 
    From her regard no shade conceals;
    Her ear e’en sorrow’s whisper steals: 
    She leads us on all griefs to find;
    To raise the fall’n, their wounds to bind—­
    Oh! not in that reproachful tone,
    Advise me first to heal my own!

      “Alas!  I cannot blame the lyre! 
    What strain, what theme can she inspire,
    Whose tongue a hopeless mandate brings! 
    Whose tears are frozen on the strings! 
    And whose recoiling, languid prayer,
    Denies itself, in mere despair? 
    So tamely, faintly, forth it springs;
    Just felt upon the pliant strings,
    It flits in sickly languor by,
    Nerv’d only with a feeble sigh!

      “I yield submissive, and again
    Resume my half-abandon’d strain! 
    Leading enchain’d sad thoughts along,
    Remembrance prompting all the song! 
    But, in the journey, drawing near
    To what I mourn, and what I fear,
    The sad realities impress
    Too deeply; hues of happiness,
    And gleams of splendors past, decay;
    The storm despoiling such a day,
    Gives to the eye no clear, full scope,
    But scatters wide the wrecks of Hope! 
    Yet the dire task I may not quit—­
    ’Twas self impos’d; and I submit,
    To paint, ah me! the heavy close,
    The full completion of my woes! 
    And, as a man that once was free,
    Whose fate impels him o’er the sea,
    Now spreads the sail, now plies the oar,
    Yet looks and leans towards the shore,
    I feel I may not longer stay,
    Yet even in launching court delay.

      “Before De Stafford should unfold
    That secret which must soon be told;
    My terrors urg’d him to comply;
    For oh!  I dar’d not then be nigh;
    And let the wide, tumultuous sea,
    Arise between the king and me! 
    ’O! tell him, my belov’d, I pine away,
      So long an exile from my native home;
    Tell him I feel my vital powers decay,
      And seem to tread the confines of the tomb;
    But tell him not, it is extremest dread
    Of royal vengeance falling on my head!

    “’Say, if that favour’d land but bless my eyes,
      That land of sun and smiles which gave me birth,
    Like the renew’d Antaeus I shall rise,
      On touching once again the parent earth! 
    Say this, but whisper not that all delight,
    All health, is only absence from his sight!’

    “My Eustace smil’d—­’ It shall be so;
    From me and love shall Marie go! 
    But on the land, and o’er the sea,
    Attended still by love and me! 
    The eagle’s eye, to brave the light,
    The swallow’s quick, adventurous flight,
    That faithfulness shall place in view,
    That service, daring, prompt, and true,
    Yet insufficient emblems be
    Of zeal for her who flies from me!