He stoop’d—and kiss’d the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay;
Till bursting words—yet all too weak—
Gave his soul’s passion way.
“O father! is it vain,
This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father! once again:
I weep—behold, I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire!—
Were but this work undone,