"Best suits my fate, best suits the hue, in this misfortune's day;
Not green, not white nor purple, but the palmer's garb of gray.
I ask no plumes for helm or cap of nature's living green,
For hope has vanished from my life of that which might have been!
And from my target will I blot the blazon that is vain--
The lynx whose eyes are fixed upon the prey that it would gain.
For the glances that I cast around meet fortune's foul disdain;
And I will blot the legend, as an accursed screed.
'Twas writ in Christian letters plain that all the world might read:
'My good right arm can gain me more altho' its range be short,