The darling he had nurs’d in flowers! 
    His pride, the prais’d of every tongue! 
    So gentle as she was!—­the rein
    Of influence holding, to restrain
    His harsher power, without pretence,
    In graceful, gay beneficence—­
    An angel deem’d, her only care
      To comfort and to please! 
    Whose smiling, whose unconscious air,
      Bespoke a heart at ease—­
    By her—­on whom sweet hopes were built,
    His cup when fill’d thus rashly spilt! 
      The treasures he had heap’d in vain,
      Thrown thankless on his hands again! 
      While—­father to this being blest,
      He saw a dagger pierce her breast,
    In knowledge of his former guilt! 
    And of his projects thus bereft,
    What had the wretched parent left? 
    Oh! from the wreck of all, he bore
    A richer, nobler freight ashore! 
    And filial love could well dispense
    On earth a dearer recompense,
    If he its real worth had known,
    Than full success had made his own.

      So ardent and so kind of late,
    Is Marie careless of their fate,
    That, wrapt in this demeanour cold,
    Her spirits some enchantments hold? 
    That thus her countenance is clos’d,
    Where high and lovely thoughts repos’d! 
    Quench’d the pure light that us’d to fly
    To the smooth cheek and lucid eye! 
    And fled the harmonizing cloud
    Which could that light benignly shroud,
    Soothing its radiance to our view,
    And melting each opposing hue,
    Till deepening tints and blendings meet
    Made contrast’ self serene and sweet.

      Vainly do voices tidings bring,
    That succours from the former king,
    Too late for that intent,—­are come
    To take the dead and wounded home;
    Waiting, impatient, in the bay,
    Till they can safely bear away,—­
    Not men that temporize and yield,
    But heroes stricken in the field;
    True sons of England, who, unmov’d,
      Could hear their fears, their interest plead;
    Led by no lure they disapprov’d,
      Stooping to no unsanction’d deed! 
    Spirits so finely tun’d, so high,
    That grovelling influences die
    Assailing them!  The venal mind
    Can neither fit inducement find
    To lead their purpose or their fate—­
    To sway, to probe, or stimulate! 
    What knowledge can they gain of such
    Whom worldly motives may not touch? 
    Those who, the instant they are known,
    Each generous mind springs forth to own! 
    Joyful, as if in distant land,
      Amid mistrust, and hate, and guile,
      Insidious speech, and lurking wile,
    They grasp’d a brother’s cordial hand! 
    Hearts so embued with fire from heaven,
    That all their failings are forgiven! 
    Nay, o’er, perchance, whose laurel wreath
      When tears of pity shine,
    We softer, fonder sighs bequeath;
      More dear, though less divine.