And reason must in all her efforts fail.
What bosom feels not, while with deepest sighs,
In fault’ring accents, I of Fate complain?
A pale and mangl’d corps Amanda lies;
O that by savage hands she had been slain!
It was her own, on fatal purpose bent,
To dark oblivion be the deed consign’d;
Nor let officious mem’ry thus torment,
With wild reflection my disorder’d mind.
Ah! what is happiness? an airy dream: