The shaft may pierce his soul, but yet no shame
Bows that proud head; he is the victor still;
He triumphs in a stern, unconquered will.
His ’scutcheon fair was dimmed by breath of blame;
The stain is washed away by woman’s tears;
His patron-queen forbids his anxious fears—
Her gracious sweetness brings him to the dust.
The pledge of royal favor now he hears.—
But, oh! too long it waited—to be just;
While care and grief led on the lingering years.