To save my mother was too promptly done.
I could not see her gentle bosom bleed,
And quite forgot the father, in the son;
For her I mourn'd--for her, through bitter years,
Pour'd forth my soul in unavailing tears.
"The world approved the act; but on my soul
There lay a gnawing consciousness of guilt,
A biting sense of crime, beyond control:
By my rash hand a father's blood was spilt,
And I abjured for aye the death-drugg'd bowl.