And fatal in its softness, day by day,
Steals from that eye some trembling spark away.
But sink not yet; for there are darker woes,
Daughter of Beauty! in thy spring-morn fading—
Sufferings more keen for thee reserved, than those
Of lingering death, which thus thine eye are shading!
Nerve then thy heart to meet that bitter lot:
’Tis agony—but soon to be forgot!
What deeper pangs maternal hearts can wring,
Than hourly to behold the spoiler’s breath