But still she cannot feel that they must part,
Nor see the stamp of death upon his cheek;
O, Hope! a skilful flatterer thou art!
For while the suff’rer grows more faint, more weak,
Thy soft beguiling voice doth words of comfort speak.
XVII.
But, ah! there is no hope. The blow that fell
Upon his heart, when his dear only son
Died in his arms—has done its work too well;
The work disease already had begun!