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  Edward, what aileth thee, that anguish sits
Where smiles, like glancing lights, were wont to play?
Mary, thy cheek is blanched; thy restless eye
Turns frequent here and there, as if it sought
To rest on one with whom might come relief!
Ah, yes! a tender lamb of that fair flock
O'er which to watch hath been by day, by night,
Thy life's chief joy, now by the wayside droops;
Droops on from hour to hour; no skill avails
To cool the fevered brow, or light again
The languid eyes that kindle now no more.
In vain, O mother, have thy faithful arms
Enfolded him and pressed him to thy heart.
No care, nor yearning of maternal love,
Nor father's wrestling hope, can stay the step
Of Sorrow—awful form!—too clearly seen
Advancing; in her hands the cup of woe,
Of which 'tis given all mortal lips to taste.

  'Tis o'er. Hark! Hark! soft on the startled ear
Music unearthly steals! celestial notes