can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
the deed that i dared, could it merit their malice?
a king and a father to place on his throne!
his right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,
where the wild beasts find shelter, tho' i can find none!
but 'tis not my suff'rings, thus wretched, forlorn,
my brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin i mourn;
your faith proved so loyal in hot bloody trial,—
alas! i can make it no better return!