As rising from a depth of woe,
At first with hurried trembling broke,
But gather’d firmness as she spoke.
—“I leave thee not—whate’er betide,
My footsteps shall not quit thy side;
Pangs, keen as death my soul may thrill,
But yet thou art my father still!
And, oh! if stain’d by guilty deed,
For some kind spirit, tenfold need,
To speak of heaven’s absolving love,