Poems (Betham)/The Heir

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THE HEIR. 
See yon tall stripling! how he droops forlorn! How slow his pace! how spiritless his eye!Like a dark cloud in summer's rosy dawn, He saddens pleasure as he passes by.
Long kept in exile by paternal pride, He feels no joy beneath this splendid dome;For, till the elder child of promise died, He knew a dearer, though a humbler home,
Then the proud sail was spread! The youth obey'd, Left ev'ry friend, and every scene he knew;For ever left the soul-afftanc'd maid, Though his heart sicken'd as he said—Adieu;;And nurses still, with superstitious care,The sigh of fond remembrance and despair.
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