Xxvi

"The suns of twenty summers danced along,-- Too little marked how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay: We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day When Fortune might put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons came;--our final leave we took.