XV.

We mourn--but not _thy_ fate, departed One! We pity--but the living, not the dead; A cloud hangs o’er us[61]--“the bright day is done,” And with a father’s hopes, a nation’s fled. And he, the chosen of thy youthful breast, Whose soul with thine had mingled every thought-- He, with thine early fond affections blest, Lord of a mind with all things lovely fraught; What but a desert to his eye, that earth, Which but retains of thee the memory of thy worth?