As soul-debasing, servile, poor,
    The growing mind becomes, at length,
    Healthy and firm in moral strength;
    Allows no parley and no plea,
    The sources of its actions free,
    They spring strait forward, to a goal
    Which bounds, surmounts, and crowns the whole! 
    Ye seek not to allay such force,
    To interrupt so bold a course! 
    What were the use of minds like these,
    That will not on occasion seize,
    Nor stoop to aid the dark design,
    Nor follow in the devious line? 
    As soon, in the close twisted brake,
    Could lions track the smooth, still snake,
    As they the sinuous path pursue
    Which policy may point to you! 
    Nay, menace not with eyes, my lords! 
    Ye could not fright me with your swords.

    “E’en threats to punish, and to kill
      With tortures difficult to bear,
    Seem as they would not higher fill
      The measure of my own despair!

    “Such terrors could not veil the hand
      Now pointing to my husband’s bier;
    Nor could such pangs a groan command
      The childless mother should not hear!

    “All now is chang’d! all contest o’er,
     Here sea-girt England reigns no more;
    And if your oaths are bound as fast,
    And kept more strictly than the last,
    Ye may, perchance, behold the time
    Service to her becomes a crime!

    “The troubles calling Eustace o’er,
    Refresh’d my eyes, my heart, once more;
    And when I gave, with pleasure wild,
    Into his circling arms our child,
    I seem’d to hold, all evil past,
    My happiness secure at last;
    But found, too soon, in every look,
    In every pondering word he spoke,
    Receding thought, mysterious aim: 
    As I did all his pity claim. 
    A watchfulness almost to fear
    Did in each cautious glance appear. 
    And still I sought to fix his eye,

      “And read the fate impending there,—­
    In vain; for it refus’d reply.

      “’Canst thou not for a moment bear
    Even thy Marie’s look,’ I cried,
    ‘More dear than all the world beside?’
    He answer’d,’ Do not thou upbraid! 
    And blame me not, if thus afraid
    A needful, dear request to make. 
    One painful only for thy sake,
    I hesitate, and dread to speak,
    Seeing that flush upon thy cheek,
    That shrinking, apprehensive air.—­
    Oh! born with me some ills to share,
    But many years of future bliss,
    Of real, tranquil happiness;
    I may not think that thou wouldst choose
    This prospect pettishly to lose
    For self-indulgence!  Understood,
    Love is the seeking others’ good. 
    If we can ne’er resign delight,
    Nor lose its object from our sight;
    And only present dangers brave,
    That which we dearest hold