 | The bridal of Vaumond |  |
XIII.
Full well was plann'd thy gaoler's scheme!Light, food, and each unfetter'd limb,
Lone on the reeking rack each hour
The hope they fann'd to life;—
Thy impotence but mock'd their power,
And deadly was the strife.
Oh, mad'ning was thy lengthen'd spell,
And memory lit her torch in hell!
96
No light thy solitude discover'd!
| The bridal of Vaumond | |