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Updated: July 14, 2026
I could not see her gentle bosom bleed, And quite forgot the father, in the son; For her I mourn'd for her, through bitter years, Pour'd forth my soul in unavailing tears. "The world approved the act; but on my soul There lay a gnawing consciousness of guilt, A biting sense of crime, beyond control: By my rash hand a father's blood was spilt, And I abjured for aye the death-drugg'd bowl.
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