XIX.
His withered prospects blacken—wounds await—
The grave grows sunlight to his darker fate.
All now is gall and bitterness within,
And thoughts, once sternly pure, half yield to sin.
His sickened soul, in all its native pride,
Swells 'neath the breast that tattered vestments hide
Disdained, disdaining; while men flourish, he
Still stands a stately though a withered tree.
But, Heavens! the agony of the moment when
Suspicion stamped the smiles of other men;
When friends glanced doubts, and proudly prudent grew,
His counsellors, and his accusers too!