No!—mad Ambition's selfish soul,
With cold and ingrate tone,
Abjured the gentle hand that paved
His pathway to a throne.
But Fortune's star indignant paled,
And hid its guiding ray,
As sternly from his side he thrust
That changeless friend away.
Yet she to her secluded cell
No vengeful passion bore,
Nor harshly blamed his broken vows,
Who sought her smile no more;
Still o'er the joys of earlier years,
With tender spirit hung,
And mourned, when sorrow o'er his path
A blighting shadow flung;
Gave thanks, if victory's meteor-wreath
His care-worn temples bound,
And in the blessings of the poor,
Her only solace found.
And so she died, and here she sleeps,
This village-fane below;—
Sweet is the memory of a life
That caused no tear to flow.
Tuesday, Dec. 22, 1840
