Excerpt from Rookwood, Vol. 2 of 3: A Romance
We're sorry
His violent act has e'en drawn blood of honour,
And stained our honours;
Thrown ink upon the forehead of our fame,
Which envious spirits will dip their pens into
After our death, and blot us in our tombs;
For that which would seem treason in our lives,
Is laughter when we're dead. Who dares now whisper,
That dares not then speak out: and even proclaim,
With loud words, and broad pens, our closest shame?
The Revenger's Tragedy.
Stern, indeed, must that bosom be - insensible, beyond even callous humanity, that would not thrill with gladness at the sight of a long absent child. As tenderly as it was in her iron nature to do, did Lady Rookwood love her son.
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