Such the retreat the fugitives had found.
Adieu to gilded roofs, and chorded minstrelsy!
Adieu to greatness, and unhealthful pomp!
The winds now rustle through their straw-crown'd cot,
And birds, with wild-note sweet, compose their concert!
Full seven slow moons have turn'd their monthly orbs,
Since GONZALES the cottage left, and since
No human sound, but their own pensive tones,
Have reach'd the Princess and her Father's ears.
What can I more? If my eventful tale
Hath touch'd the chords of pity in your heart,
And swell'd the sympathetic tear — soft tribute!
By gentle minds, to sorrow ever paid,
— Know, 'tis no stranger's woes I have related;
am the object of my own sad story —
It is the Princess speaks —