I know it true, against the blows of fate,
When that against ourselves they only glance,
The firm heart shielded can withstand its hate;
But so it is not oft: and thou, perchance,
Mayst think I never one have lost I loved
More than my life. If sorrow will give truce
Thee for a moment, turn thine eyes disproved
To an unhappy orphan, weak, recluse,
And sorrowing solitary in the world,
Without scarce one to whom to weep his woe;