Daughter of Conrad! when he heard his knell, And bade his country and his child farewell! Doom'd the long isles of Sydney-cove to see, The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee? Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart, And thrice return'd, to bless thee, and to part; Thrice from his trembling lips he murmur'd low The plaint that own'd unutterable woe; Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom, As bursts the morn on night's unfathom'd gloom, Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime, "And weep not thus," he cried, "young Ellenore, My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more! Short shall this half-extinguish'd spirit burn, And soon these limbs to kindred dust return! But not, my child, with life's precarious fire, When time is o'er, and worlds have pass'd away! Cold in the dust this perish'd heart may lie, But that which warm'd it once shall never die! That spark unburied in its mortal frame, With living light, eternal, and the same, Shall beam on Joy's interminable years, Unveil'd by darkness—unassuaged by tears! "Yet, on the barren shore and stormy deep, One tedious watch is Conrad doom'd to weep; But when I gain the home without a friend, And press the uneasy couch where none attend, This last embrace, still cherish'd in my heart, Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part! 'Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh, And hush the groan of life's last agony! "Farewell! when strangers lift thy father's bier, And place my nameless stone without a tear; When each returning pledge hath told my child That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled; And when the dream of troubled fancy sees Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze; Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er? Who will protect thee, helpless Ellenore? |