Poor flower, that wither'd at the feverous touch!"
Prone at his feet she fell, and, speaking, hid
Her eyes: "I would have died to save her, tho'
She died thro' me . . . I will confess. My lord,
Beth's son is prince, mine subject, and you love
Hers most. Forgive me! - Oh, you do not know
The weary days, the passionate, restless nights,
The violent throbbing of a jealous heart, -
I fell for my child's sake. I set the cup
For Tristram . . . Grant thou the last boon I crave!
When I am dead - or banisht - and forgotten,
Hate not the children for the mother's crime:
Let all things be as I had never lived."
"Good mother, I blame thee not. Thy child is dead,
And that has punisht thee. It is the last
Read more in News
Notice.