Just as hope held life’s blissful prize in view,
That death should prove it mockery and untrue,
And make thee share, who sought the plighted brave,
A lover’s anguish and a martyr’s grave!
But vain for thee may roll the tuneful line,
Since praises breath’d from every tongue are thine—
In vain may song its mournful strain bestow,
Since grief to feel is but thy fate to know—
In vain may sorrow her sad dirge impart,
For Pity’s throb is thine from every heart—