The terrors of the dreadful past
Were crowding through my mem'ry fast.
The months and months of fruitless hate
Which mocked my eager rage of late;
The hope of morn, despair of eve,
The night, when blasted hopes I'd grieve,
All stood before me; and with smother'd cries
Bid me revenge while Fate the chance supplies;
Then stole away, when that most dreadful night