Pity from me, Matilda? Oh! thy sire
Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know’st
That the forsaken have a Father still
On high. Confide in Him, and live to days
Of peace, if not of joy; for such to thee
He surely destines. Wherefore hath He pour’d
The torrent of affliction on thy youth,
If to thy future years be not reserved
All His benign compassion! Live! and soothe
Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms