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Endure that from a bosom, once so dear,
rival's arms! O! safe, through lengthen'd years, may'st thou remain From all the varied forms of deathful pain ! From injured honour's unrelenting ire, The blast of accident, the fever's fire ! Soft may those dangerous graces melt away, And gently sink in scarce perceived decay!
For this my breast its cureless woes shall hide, Nor sting fraternal love, nor generous pride. Yes, dear Lorenzo! thou shalt still believe, Though much the thought thy gentle breast will grieve, Louisa, lost to tenderness, and truth, In the vain levity of thoughtless youth,
Proved to Eugenio's love a cold ingrate,
Cruel Remembrance ! how shall I assuage The yearning pangs of thy incessant rage ? What balmy comfort can the heart pervade, When bitter tears his broken faith upbraid, Whose hand, we fondly hoped, should wipe away Their flowing sorrows through each future day? Since in Reflection's grasp each blessing dies, When the forced struggling spirit must despise Him who, encircled with perfection's zone, Long in our sight scarce less than angel shone. For if Credulity her warmth impart, With veils of light she screens the selfish heart; But barbarous Perfidy's severe extreme, In shades eternal, shrouds each gorgeous beam.
On the arch'd windows thus, that proudly grace An high majestic temple’s awful face, When pours the setting sun its darting rays, An hundred solar orbs appear to blaze ; But when th' incumbent shades of lowering night Curtain the source of this illusive light, Its evanescent fires no more remain, But horrors gather round the darkend fane ;
The lofty turrets, desolately grand,
So, round Eugenio's form, that rises yet, 'Mid Pride's cold frown, and Passion's warm regret, Deprived of all the lustre it retain'd, When
belief with sunny hue remain’d, Incessant now the fiends of avarice glide, With dark Ambition scowling at their side.
Detested impotence of flatter'd charms,
Like opening flow'rs, that deck the desert glade, Fair to no purpose,
fade! One healing draught-and all shall yet be well! • Peace is the pale-ey'd sister of the cell,' The cell of Death-where Misery only knows The soft exemption,—and the long repose.
Ah no!-a guardian spirit seems to say, Stay thee, Louisa, yet a little stay!
Who, shut for ever from the blissful bow'rs,
The sweet reward
Begirt with this ethereal train,
Due to each great heroic deed,
Joys that might charm an heav'nly breast,
A dying nation to restore,
Edward III. by whom the Order of the Garter was founded.
To quench the torch of discord and debate,
Complete the noble Gothic pile,
In symmetry, and strength, and fame,
Which virtue rais'd on Tiber's strand.
This god-like task, to few assign’d,
Exalts thee above human-kind,
END OF VOL. I.