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 But still deep shades my prospects veil, He died—and told but half the tale; With him it sleeps—I only know Enough for stern and silent woe, For vain ambition's deep regret, For hopes deceiv'd, deceiving yet, For dreams of pride that vainly tell, How high a lot had suited well The heir of some illustrious line, Heroes and chieftains of the Rhine!"

Then swift through Albert's bosom pass'd One pang, the keenest and the last, Ere with his spirit fled the fears, The sorrows, and the pangs of years; And, while his grey hairs swept the dust, Faltering he murmur'd, "Heaven is just! For thee that deed of guilt was done, By thee aveng'd, my Son! my Son!"

The day was clos’d—the moonbeam shed Light on the living and the dead, And as through rolling clouds it broke, Young Ella from her trance awoke, Awoke to bear, to feel, to know E’en more than all an orphan's woe. Oh! ne'er did moonbeam's light serene With beauty clothe a sadder scene! There, cold in death the father slept, There, pale in woe, the daughter wept;