No more shall welcome his return.
Ah! little did she think the while,
Her fate through life would be to mourn!
And his stern sire; how will he brook
The tale that tells his child is low!
How will the haughty tyrant look,
And writhe beneath the hopeless blow!
While conscience, with his vengeance sure,
Shall grant no peace, and feel no cure.
Aye, weep! for thee, no pitying eye