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And can she from all weakness still refrain ?
And still the firmness of her soul maintain ?
Impossible ! a sigh will force its way;
One patient tear her mortal birth betray;
She sighs and weeps! but so she


and sighs, As silent dews descend, and vapours rise.

Celestial patience ! how dost thou defeat The foe's proud menace, and elude his hate ! While passion takes his part, betrays our peace ; To death and torture swells each slight disgrace; By not opposing, thou dost ills destroy, And wear thy conquer'd sorrows into joy.

Now she revolves within her anxious mind, What woe still lingers in reserve behind. Griefs rise on griefs, and she can see no bound, While nature lasts, and can receive a wound. The sword is drawn; the queen to rage inclin'd, By mercy, nor by piety, confin'd. What mercy can the zealot's heart assuage, Whose piety itself converts to rage ? She thought, and sigh’d. And now the blood began To leave her beauteous cheek all cold and wan. New sorrow dimm'd the lustre of her eye, And on her cheek the fading roses die. Alas! should Guilford too—when now she's brought To that dire view, that precipice of thought, While there she trembling stands, nor dares look

down, Nor can recede, till heaven's decrees are known; Cure of all ills, till now, her lord appears. But not to cheer her heart, and dry her tears ! Not now, as usual, like the rising day,

To chase the shadows, and the damps away:
But, like a gloomy storm, at once to sweep
And plunge her to the bottom of the deep.
Black were his robes, dejected was his air,
His voice was frozen by his cold despair ;
Slow, like a ghost, he mov'd with solemn pace;
A dying paleness sat upon his face.
Back she recoil'd, she smote her lovely breast,
Her eyes the anguish of her heart confess’d;
Struck to the soul, she stagger'd with the wound,
And sunk, a breathless image, to the ground.

Thus the fair lily, when the sky's o'ercast,
At first but shudders in the feeble blast;
But when the winds and weighty rains descend,
The fair and upright stem is forc'd to bend;
Till broke at length, its snowy leaves are shed,
And strew with dying sweets their native bed.

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Hic pietatis honos ? sic nos in sceptra reponis ?-VIRG.

HER Guilford clasps her, beautiful in death,
And with a kiss recalls her fleeting breath,
To tapers thus, which by a blast expire,
A lighted taper, touch’d, restores the fire:
She rear'd her swimming eye, and saw the light,
And Guilford too, or she had loath'd the sight:
Her father's death she bore, despis'd her own,
But now she must, she will, have leave to groan:
Ah! Guilford, she began, and would have spoke ;
But sobs rush'd in, and ev'ry accent broke :
Reason itself, as gusts of passion blew,
Was ruffled in the tempest, and withdrew.

So the youth lost his image in the well,
When tears upon the yielding surface fell.
The scatter'd features slid into decay,
And spreading circles drove his face away.

To touch the soft affections, and control
The manly temper of the bravest soul,
What with afflicted beauty can compare,
And drops of love distilling from the fair?
It melts us down ; our pains delight bestow;
And we with fondness languish o'er our woe.

This Guilford prov'd; and, with excess of pain,
And pleasure too, did to his bosom strain
The weeping fair: sunk deep in soft desire,
Indulg'd his love, and nurs’d the raging fire:
Then tore himself away; and, standing wide,
As fearing a relapse of fondness, cried,
With ill-dissembled grief; “ My life, forbear!
You wound your Guilford with each cruel tear :

my grief ? repress your own; Nor want compassion for yourself alone : Have you beheld, how, from the distant main, The thronging waves roll on, a num'rous train, And foam, and bellow, till they reach the shore ; There burst their noisy pride, and are no more ? Thus the successive flows of human race, Chas'd by the coming, the preceding, chase ; They sound, and swell, their haughty heads they


you not chide

Then fall, and flatten, break, and disappear.
Life is a forfeit we must shortly pay;
And where's the mighty lucre of a day?
Why should you mourn my fate? 'tis most unkind;
Your own you bore with an unshaken mind :
And which, can you imagine, was the dart
That drank most blood, sunk deepest in my heart ?
I cannot live without


I meet with joy, to share one common tomb.-
And are again your tears profusely spilt !
Oh! then, my kindness blackens to my guilt ;
It foils itself, if it recall your pain ;-
Life of my life, I beg you to refrain !
The load which fate imposes, you increase ;
And help Maria to destroy my peace."

But, oh! against himself his labour turn'd;
The more he comforted, the more she mourn'd:
Compassion swells our grief; words soft and kind
But soothe our weakness, and dissolve the mirid :
Her sorrow flow'd in streams; nor hers alone,
While that he blam’d, he yielded to his own.
Where are the smiles she wore, when she, so late,
Hail'd him great partner of the regal state ;
When orient gems around her temples blaz’d,
And bending nations on the glory gaz’d?

'Tis now the queen’s command, they both retreat, To

weep with dignity, and mourn in state: She forms the decent misery with joy, And loads with pomp the wretch she would destroy. A spacious hall is hung with black; all light Shut out, and noon-day darken'd into night. From the mid-roof a lamp depends on high,

Like a dim crescent in a clouded sky:
It sheds a quiv’ring melancholy gloom,
Which only shows the darkness of the room.
A shining axe is on the table laid ;
A dreadful sight! and glitters through the shade.

In this sad scene the lovers are confin'd;
A scene of terrors, to a guilty mind !
A scene, that would have damp'd with rising cares,
And quite extinguish'd every love but theirs.
What can they do? They fix their mournful

eyesThen Guilford, thus abruptly; " I despise An empire lost; I fling away the crown; Numbers have laid that bright delusion down; But where's the Charles, or Dioclesian where, Could quit the blooming, wedded, weeping fair ? Oh! to dwell ever on thy lip! to stand In full possession of thy snowy hand ! And, thro' th' unclouded crystal of thine eye, The heavenly treasures of thy mind to spy! Till rapture reason happily destroys, And

my soul wanders through immortal joys ! Give me the world, and ask me, where's my bliss ? I clasp thee to my breast, and answer,

this. And shall the grave”—Hegroans, and can no more ; But all her charms in silence traces o'er; Her lip, her cheek, and eye, to wonder wrought; And, wond'ring, sees, in sad presaging thought, From that fair neck, that world of beauty fall, And roll along the dust, a ghastly ball !

Oh ! let those tremble, who are greatly bless'd ! For who, but Guilford, could be thus distress'd ?

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