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 'Tis not for me to pause or melt, Or feel as happier hearts have felt. Away! the hour of fate goes by, Thy prayers are fruitless—he must die!"

"Rise, Ella! rise," with stedfast brow The father spoke; unshrinking now, As if from Heaven a martyr's strength Had settled on his soul at length; "Kneel thou no more, my noble child, Thou by no taint of guilt defil'd; Kneel not to man!—for mortal prayer, Oh! when did mortal vengeance spare? Since hope of earthly aid is flown, Lift thy pure hands to Heaven alone, And know, to calm thy suffering heart, My spirit is resign'd to part, Trusting in Him, who reads and knows This guilty breast, with all its woes. Rise! I would bless thee once again, Be still, be firm—for all is vain!"

And she was still—she heard him not, Her prayers were hush'd—her pangs forgot; All thought, all memory pass'd away, Silent and motionless she lay, In a brief death, a blest suspense, Alike of agony and sense. She saw not when the dagger gleam'd In the last red light from the west that stream'd; She mark'd not when the life-blood's flow Came rushing to the mortal blow; While, unresisting, sunk her sire, Yet gather'd firmness to expire, Mingling a Warrior's courage high, With a Penitent's humility.