But he, the favourite and the flower,

Most cherished since his natal hour,

His mother's image in fair face,

The infant love of all his race,

His martyred father's dearest thought,[17]

My latest care, for whom I sought

To hoard my life, that his might be170

170

Less wretched now, and one day free;[21]

[21]

He, too, who yet had held untired

A spirit natural or inspired—

He, too, was struck, and day by day

Was withered on the stalk away.[18]

Oh, God! it is a fearful thing

To see the human soul take wing

In any shape, in any mood:[19]

I've seen it rushing forth in blood,

I've seen it on the breaking ocean180

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