Who, doom'd to tread alone a dreary round,

   Remembers the lost things, that made life precious,

   Yet sees no end of cheerless solitude.

 Adel. We have known too much of sorrow; yet, 'twere wise

   To turn our thoughts from what mischance has ravish'd,

   And rest on what it leaves. My father's love——

 Countess. Was mine, but is no more. 'Tis past, 'tis gone.

   That ray, at last, I hoped would never set,

   My guide, my light, through, fortune's blackest shades:

   It was my dear reserve, my secret treasure;

   I stor'd it up, as misers hoard their gold,

   Sure counterpoise for life's severest ills:

   Vain was my hope; for love's soft sympathy,

   He pays me back harsh words, unkind, reproof,

   And looks that stab with coldness.

 Adel. Oh, most cruel!

   And, were he not my father, I could rail;

   Call him unworthy of thy wondrous virtues;

   Blind, and unthankful, for the greatest blessing

   Heaven's ever-bounteous hand could shower upon him.

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