But turns not to this unfrequented ground.
"Alas! my love, thy anxious care is vain!
Nothing can stop yon wand'rer of the sky;
Nothing can long this fleeting life retain!
For oh! I feel that I must shortly die.
"But cease my lute, this low, desponding strain,
It floats too long upon the heavy air;
Henry may pass and know that I complain.
One moment's peace to him is worth my care."
She said, and toward the cheerless mansion flew,