A mark for all the shafts of heaven!
“Yet had I wrongs. By fraud he won
My birth-right; and my child, my son,
Heir to high name, high fortune born,
Was doom’d to penury and scorn,
An alien midst his fathers’ halls,
An exile from his native walls.
Could I bear this? The rankling thought,
Deep, dark, within my bosom wrought;
Some serpent, kindling hate and guile,