“Soul-struck, and yielding to his fate,
    My father left his castle gate. 
    ‘Thou,’ he would cry, with flowing eyes,
    ’That moment wert the sacrifice! 
    Little, alas! avails to thee
    Wealth, honours, titles, ancestry;
    All lost by me!  I dar’d to lift
    On high thy welfare, as a gift! 
    To save thee, dearest, dar’d resign
    Thy worldly good! it was not mine! 
    But, O!  I felt around thee twin’d
    My very self,—­my heart and mind! 
    All that may chance is dead to me,
    Save only as it touches thee! 
    Could self-infliction but atone
    For one who lives in thee alone;
    If my repentance and my tears
    Could spare thy future smiling years,
    The fatal curse should only rest
    Upon this firm, though guilty breast? 
    Yet, tendering from thy vessel’s freight
    Offerings of such exceeding weight,
    And free thee from one earthly chain! 
    Envy and over-weening hate
    Would on thy orphan greatness wait;
    Folly that supple nature bend
    For parasites to scorn thy friend;
    And pamper’d vanity incline
    To wilful blindness such as mine!

      “’Thee to the altar yet I bring! 
    Hear me, my Saviour and my King! 
    Again I for my child resign
    All worldly good! but make her thine! 
    Let her soft footsteps gently move,
    Nor waken grief, nor injure love;
    Carelessly trampling on the ground
    That priceless gem, so rarely found;
    That treasure, which, should angels guard,
    Would all their vigilance reward!

      “’My mind refuses still to fear
    She should be cold or insincere;
    That aught like meanness should debase
    One of our rash and wayward race,
    No! most I dread intemperate pride,
    Deaf ardour, reckless, and untried,
    With firm controul and skilful rein,
    Its hurrying fever to restrain!

      “’Others might wish their soul’s delight
    Should be most lovely to the sight;
    And beauty vainly I ador’d,
    Serv’d with my eye, my tongue, my sword;
    Nay, let me not from truth depart! 
    Enshrin’d and worship’d it at heart. 
    Oft, when her mother fix’d my gaze,
    Enwrapt, on bright perfection’s blaze,
    Hopes the imperious spell beguil’d,
    Transcendant thus to see my child: 
    But now, for charms of form or face,
    Save only purity and grace;
    Save sweetness, which all rage disarms,
    Would lure an infant to her arms
    In instantaneous love; and make
    A heart, like mine, with fondness ache;
    I little care, so she be free
    From such remorse as preys on me!’

      “My dearest father!—­Yet he grew
    Profoundly anxious, as he knew
    More of the dangers lurking round;
    But I was on enchanted ground! 
    Delighted with my minstrel