At least, forgetfulness can little plead.
A widow'd parent!—I deserv'd disdain,
'Tis fit these eyes should weep, this heart should bleed!
"But yet assist me heaven! to hide my grief,
My waning health from love's suspicious eyes!
This malady admits of no relief,
And nought augments the pain, but Henry's sighs.
"Perhaps e'en now he wonders at my stay,
Sees the white fogs of evening rise around,
Comes out to seek me in my devious way,