That, lost in Melody’s soft notes, expire.
Vain was our hope that deem’d the sanguine cloud
Rais’d by my breath would quench the orb of day;
To-morrow he repairs his golden flood,
And warms the nation with redoubled ray,
Enough for me, with dread I see
The different doom our fates assign;
Yours is despair and legal care,
Sorrow and defeat are mine.”
She spoke, and headlong from the gallery’s height,