II.

High swell’d in her bosom the throb of affection As lightly her form bounded over the lea, And arose in her mind every dear recollection; “I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.” How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, When sympathy’s swell the soft bosom is moving, And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!