ARABELLA STUART.
15
I am cast under their triumphal car,
An insect to be crush'd.—Oh! Heaven is far,—
Earth pitiless!
Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am prov'd
So long, so sternly! Seymour, my belov'd!
There are such tales of holy marvels done
By strong affection, of deliverance won
Thro' its prevailing power! Are these things told
Till the young weep with rapture, and the old
Wonder, yet dare not doubt,—and thou, oh! thou,
Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay?—
Thou canst not!—thro' the silent night, ev'n now,
I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray
Still first for thee.—Oh! gentle, gentle friend!
How shall I bear this anguish to the end?
Aid! comes there yet no aid?—the voice of blood
Passes Heaven's gate, ev'n ere the crimson flood
