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!