But to their bosoms thou wilt now return
A mourner; and the object of their hate
Will be no more.—Oh! there is joy in death!—
And thou, my flower! that, midst the din of arms,
Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head
Droops to the earth! Alas! the tempest’s rage
Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart
Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe.
I feel thy burning tears upon my breast—
I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim