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He would not, dying, hear my ardent prayer!
But, cruel! said, I leave her all my store;
She wrung my doating heart with deep despair,
And even now perhaps desires no more.
But, cruel! said, I leave her all my store;
She wrung my doating heart with deep despair,
And even now perhaps desires no more.
This is the stroke which all my peace destroys,
The dagger which no art can draw away,
The thought which every faculty employs,
Withers my bloom, and makes my strength decay.
The dagger which no art can draw away,
The thought which every faculty employs,
Withers my bloom, and makes my strength decay.
His death, his sorrows are the heavy curse
That hangs above my poor, distracted head!
His dying words have scatter'd vain remorse,
For vain, though bitter, are the tears I shed.
That hangs above my poor, distracted head!
His dying words have scatter'd vain remorse,
For vain, though bitter, are the tears I shed.
And yet my father to my soul was dear,
But tender pity was on Henry's side;
I painted him relenting, not severe,
Nor fancied I could be an orphan bride.
But tender pity was on Henry's side;
I painted him relenting, not severe,
Nor fancied I could be an orphan bride.
