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Oh! how fevere ! to fall fo new a bride,
Yet blushing from the priest, in youthful pride;
When time had just matur'd each perfect grace,
And open'd all the wonders of her face!
To leave her GUILFORD dead to all relief,
Fond of his woe, and obftinate in grief.
Unhappy fair! whatever fancy drew,
(Vain promis'd blessings) vanish from her view;
No train of chearful days, endearing nights,
No fweet domeftic joys, and chaste delights;
Pleasures that blossom e'en from doubts and fears;
And blifs and rapture rifing out of cares :
No little GUILFORD, with paternal grace,
Lull'd on her knee, or smiling in her face;
Who, when her dearest father shall return,
From pouring tears on her untimely urn,
Might comfort to his filver hairs impart,
And fill her place in his indulgent heart:
As where fruits fall, quick-rifing bloffoms fmile,
And the blefs'd Indian of his care beguile.

In vain these various reasons jointly press,
To blacken death, and heighten her distress;
She, through th' encircling terrors, darts her fight
To the bless'd regions of eternal light,

And fills her foul with peace: To weeping friends
Her father, and her lord, the recommends ;
Unmov'd herself: Her foes her air furvey,
And rage to see their malice thrown away.
She foars; now nought on earth detains her care-
But GUILFORD; who still struggles for his share.
Still will his form importunately rife,

Clog and retard her transport to the skies;
As trembling flames now take a feeble flight,
Now catch the brand with a returning light,

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Thus her foul onward from the feats above,
Falls fondly back, and kindles into love:

At length fhe conquers in the doubtful field;
That Heav'n fhe feeks will be her GUILFORD's fhield.
Now death is welcome; his approach is flow;
'Tis tedious longer to expect the blow.

Oh! mortals, fhort of fight, who think the past
O'erblown misfortune ftill fhall prove the laft:
Alas! misfortunes travel in a train,
And oft in life form one perpetual chain;
Fear buries fear, and ills on ills attend,

"Till life and forrow meet one common end.

She thinks that she has nought but death to fear,
And death is conquer'd. Worfe than death is near:
Her rigid trials are not yet complete ;

The news arrives of her great father's fate.
She fees his hoary head, all white with age,
A victim to th' offended monarch's rage.
How great the mercy, had the breath'd her laft,
Ere the dire fentence on her father past!

A fonder parent nature never knew;
And as his age increas'd, his fondness grew.
A parent's love ne'er better was bestow'd;
The pious daughter in her heart o'erflow'd.
And can fhe from all weakness ftill refrain ?
And ftill the firmness of her foul maintain?
Impoffible! a figh will force its way;
One patient tear her mortal birth betray;
She fighs and weeps! but fo fhe weeps and fighs,
As filent dews descend, and vapours rise.

Celestial Patience! how doft thou defeat
The foe's proud menace, and elude his hate!
While Paffion takes his part, betrays our peace;
To death and torture fwells each flight disgrace;

By

By not oppofing, thou doft ills deftroy,
And wear thy conquer'd sorrows into joy.
Now he 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 fword is drawn; The queen to rage inclin❜d,
By mercy, nor by piety, confin'd.

What mercy can the Zealot's heart afsuage,

Whose piety itself converts to rage

?

She thought, and figh'd. And now the blood began
To leave her beauteous cheek all cold and wan.
New forrow dimm'd the luftre of her eye,

And on her cheek the fading roses die.

Alas! fhould GUILFORD too- -When now she's brought
To that dire view, that precipice of thought,

While there fhe trembling ftands, nor dares look down,"
Nor can recede, till heav'n's decrees are known;
Cure of all ills, till now, her lord appears-
But not to chear her heart, and dry her tears!
Not now, as ufual, like the rifing 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 ghoft, he mov'd with folemn pace;
A dying paleness fat upon his face.
Back fhe recoil'd, fhe fmote her lovely breast,
Her eyes the anguish of her heart confefs'd;
Struck to the foul, fhe stagger'd with the wound,
And funk, a breathlefs image, to the ground.

Thus the fair lily, when the sky's o'ercast,
At first but fhudders in the feeble blast;

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But when the winds and weighty rains descend,
The fair and upright ftem is forc'd to bend ;
Till broke at length, its fnowy leaves are shed,
And ftrew with dying sweets their native bed.

THE

THE

FORCE of RELIGION;

OR,

VANQUISH'D LOVE.

BOOK II.

Hic pietatis honos? fic nos in fceptra reponis? VIRG.

H

ER 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, reftores the fire:
She rear'd her swimming eye, and faw the light,
And GUILFORD too, or she had loath'd the fight:
Her father's death fhe bore, defpis'd her own,
But now the muft, fhe will, have leave to groan:
Ah! GUILFORD, fhe began, and would have spoke ;
But fobs rufh'd in, and ev'ry accent broke :

Reafon itself, as gufts of paffion blew,
Was ruffled in the tempest, and withdrew.
So the youth loft his image in the well,
When tears upon the yielding furface fell :

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