To my sad thought no beam of hope appears
Through the long prospect of succeeding years;
The son aspiring to his father's fame,
Shows all his sire: another and the same.
He blest in lovely Carolina's arms,
To future ages propagates her charms:
With pain and joy at strife, I often trace
The mingled parents in each daughter's face;
Half sick'ning at the sight, too well I spie
The father's spirit through the mother's eye:
In vain new thoughts of rage I entertain,
And strive to hate their innocence in vain.