VII.

  Pale as the livid corse her cheek,
    Her tresses torn, her glances wild,—­
  How fearful was her frantic shriek! 
    She wept—­and then in horrors smil’d: 
She gazes now with wild affright,
  Lo! bleeding phantoms rush in sight—­
Hark! on yon mangled form the mourner calls,
Then on the earth a senseless weight she falls.

VIII.

  And see! o’er gentle Andre’s tomb,
    The victim of his own despair,
  Who fell in life’s exulting bloom,
    Nor deem’d that life deserv’d a care;
  O’er the cold earth his relicks prest,
  Lo!  Britain’s drooping legions rest;
For him the swords they sternly grasp, appear
Dim with a sigh, and sullied with a tear.

IX.

  While Seward sweeps her plaintive strings,
    While pensive round his sable shrine,
  A radiant zone she graceful flings,
    Where full emblaz’d his virtues shine;
  The mournful loves that tremble nigh
  Shall catch her warm melodious sigh;
The mournful loves shall drink the tears that flow
From Pity’s hov’ring soul, dissolv’d in woe.

X.

  And hark, in Albion’s flow’ry vale
    A parent’s deep complaint I hear! 
  A sister calls the western gale
    To waft her soul-expressive tear;
’Tis Asgill claims that piercing sigh,
  That drop which dims the beauteous eye,
While on the rack of Doubt Affection proves
How strong the force which binds the ties she loves.

XI.

  How oft in every dawning grace
    That blossom’d in his early hours,
  Her soul some comfort lov’d to trace,
    And deck’d futurity in flowers! 
  But lo! in Fancy’s troubled sight
  The dear illusions sink in night;
She views the murder’d form—­the quiv’ring breath,
The rising virtues chill’d in shades of death.

XII.

  Cease, cease ye throbs of hopeless woe;
    He lives the future hours to bless,
  He lives, the purest joy to know,
    Parental transports fond excess;
  His sight a father’s eye shall chear,
  A sister’s drooping charms endear:—­
The private pang was Albion’s gen’rous care,
For him she breath’d a warm accepted prayer.

XIII.

  And lo! a radiant stream of light
    Defending, gilds the murky cloud,
  Where Desolation’s gloomy night
    Retiring, folds her sable shroud;
  It flashes o’er the bright’ning deep,
  It softens Britain’s frowning steep—­
’Tis mild benignant Peace, enchanting form! 
That gilds the black abyss, that lulls the storm.