Without one canker'd wound, or earthly stain.

"And, _darling!_ as my trembling fingers twine
Those fetters round thee, they are wet with tears!
For the sweet playmate of my early years
I cannot thus afflict, nor thus resign
My equal liberty, and not repine!
For I had made thee, infant as thou art,
Queen of my hopes, my leisure, and my heart;
Given thee its happiest laugh, its sweetest tear,
And all I found or conquer'd every year.

"I blame me now I let thy sports offend
Old Time, and laid thy snare within his path
To make him falter, as it often hath;
For he grew angry soon, and held his breath,
And hurried on, in frightful league with Death,
To make the way through which my footsteps bend,
Late rich in all that social scenes attend,
A desert; and with thee I droop, I die,
Beneath the look of his malignant eye.

"Me do triumphant heroes call
To grace with harp their festal hall?
O! must my voice awake the song?--
My skill the artful tale prolong?
Yes! I am call'd--it is my doom!
Unhappily, ye know not whom,
Nor what, impatient ye demand!
How hostile now the fever'd hand,