Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/323

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THE ORPHANS.

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In whose lovely features (let me
All my weakness here confess),
While the struggling tears permit me,
All her father's I can trace;

His, whose image never leaves me,
Whose remembrance yet I prize;
Who this bitterest feeling gives me—
Loving where I most despise.

With regret and sorrow, rather,
When our child's first accents flow,
I shall teach her to say "Father"—
But his guilt she ne'er shall know.

Whilst to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Wake me to a widowed bed;
In another's arms no sorrow
Wilt thou feel, no tears wilt shed,

For the world's applause I sought not
When I tore myself from thee;
Of its praise or blame I thought not—
What is blame or praise to me?

He in whom my soul delighted,
From his breast my image drove;
With contempt my truth requited,
And preferred a wanton love.

Thou art proud—and mark me, Byron!
Proud is my soul as thine own;
Soft to love—but hard as iron
When despite is on me thrown.

But, 'tis past!—I'll not upbraid thee,
Nor shall ever wish thee ill;
Wretched though thy crimes have made me,
If thou canst, be happy still!

The Orphans.

My chaise the village inn did gain.
Just as the setting sun's last ray
Tipped with refulgent gold the vane
Of the old church across the way.

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