To wring her hands in secret, and to raise
The eye of silent anguish up to heaven;
For though he dearly lov'd her, he would ne'er
Submit to hear a murmur at his will.
Oft with her heart oppress'd, and her blue eyes
Full of unshedden tears, she bent her way
Alone to Osborne's lowly cot, and when
Her faint voice call'd the fond inquiry forth,
Would say, "'tis true, my friends, that I am sad,
Nay sick, with vain repining. O! I wish,