With specious words I strove to comfort them.
I could not feel that he would die—the same
Delusive flatt’rer, Hope, who oft before
Had lighted in my breast a glowing flame
When all had else been darkness, now once more
Beguiled my willing heart with too successful power.
XXXIX.
Swift on affection’s never tiring wings,
Our parents flew to see their only son;
And I was left behind; for many things