And Roderick, with thine anguish stung,
At length the hand of Douglas wrung,
While eyes that mock’d at tears before,
With bitter drops were running o’er.
The death pangs of long-cherish’d hope
Scarce in that ample breast had scope,
But, struggling with his spirit proud,
Convulsive heaved its checker’d shroud,[158]
While every sob—so mute were all—
Was heard distinctly through the hall.