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Not o'er men's wills.— This is a power Heaven to itself retains, And ne'er did delegate to mortal being.

Despair, despair! What see I but despair, Shame, infamy, a malefactor's end?

Wring not thy hands so wildly, wretched lady. His life, indeed, we must despair to save; But infamy is from his name removed, As heaven from hell. Yea, his proud house shall boast Of this its noble malefactor, more Than all its trophied chiefs. When at the bar he stood arraign'd, and pled, Proving his secret guilt, against himself, Ne'er rose his form so nobly on the mind, Even in his days of triumph.— But when the fatal sentence was pronounced, He raised his head, and sent a look to Heaven Of pleased appeal and solemn thankfulness; A look of pious hope, so dignified, He seem'd like some fall'n seraph that again Had won his way to bliss.—A general murmur Of admiration from deep silence rose. Old men did clasp their hands, and young men wept;