LLEWELLYN.
Oh! Father, mock me not—I know that Death
Sits lightly on him as a dreamless sleep;
So dear a bud can never lose its sweets;
Oh! foolish heart! I thought to see him grow
In strength and beauty, like a sapling oak,
Spreading his stalwart shoots about the sky,
Till, when old age set burdens on my back,
In every bough my trembling hands should find
A staff to prop me onward to the grave;
And now—my heart is shaken somewhat sorely.