LIX.
Ah! whither shall she flee, poor hapless thing,
To find a rest more blissful than the grave,
For what sweet haven spread her weary wing,
To nestle from the foam of sorrow's wave?
The midnight winds are sadly whispering,
And coldly on her beating temples lave;
Yes!—on—an iron law is in her soul,
Peace! trembling heart, brave not its stern controul.