And, having robb'd her of her treasur'd honour,
Cast her away, defil'd,—despoil'd—forsaken—
The daughter of a high and ancient line—
The child of so much love—she died—she died—
Upon the threshold of that home, from which
My father spurn'd her—over whose pale corse
I swore to hunt, through life, her ravisher—
Nor ever from by bloodhound track desist,
Till line and deep atonement had been made—
Honour for honour given—blood for blood.