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Oh! how fevere! to fall so 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 sweet domestic joys, and chaste delights ;
Pleasures that blossom e'en from doubts and fears ;
And bliss and rapture rifing out of cares :
No little GUILFORD, with paternal grace,
Lulld on her knee, or smiling in her face ;
Who, when her deareft 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-rising blossoms smile,
And the bless'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 soul with peace: To weeping friends
Her father, and her lord, the recommends ;
Unmov'd herself: Her foes her air survey,
And rage to see their malice thrown away.
She soars ; now nought on earth detains her care
But GUILFORD ; who still struggles for his share.
Still will his form importunately rise,
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

Thus her soul onward from the seats above,
Falls fondly back, and kindles into love:
At length she conquers in the doubtful field;
That Heav'n she seeks will be her Guilford's shield.
Now death is welcome; his approach is flow 1;
"Tis tedious longer to expect the blow.

Oh ! mortals, short of fight, who think the past
O'erblown misfortune still shall prove the last :
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 sorrow meet one common end.

She thinks that she has nought but death to fear,
And death is conquer'd. Worse than death is near :
Her rigid trials are not yet complete ;
The news arrives of her great father's fate.
She sees his hoary head, all white with age,
A victim to th' offended monarch's

rage.
How great
the mercy,

had she breath'd her last, Ere the dire sentence 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 she from all weakness still refrain ?
And still the firmness of her soul maintain ?
Impossible ! a figh will force its way;
One patient tear her mortal birth betray ;
She fighs and weeps ! but so she weeps and fighs,
As filent dews descend, and vapours

rise.
Celestial Patience ! how dost thou defeat
The foe's proud menace, and elude his hate !
While Paffion takes his part, betrays our peace ;
To death and torture swells each slight disgrace ;

By

By not oppofing, thou doft ills destroy,
And wear thy conquer'd sorrows into joy.

Now se 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 figh’d. And now the blood began
To leave her beauteous cheek all cold and wan.
New sorrow dimm’d the luftre 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 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 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 ghoft, he mov'd with solemn pace;
A dying paleness fat upon his face.
Back she recoild, 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 funk, a breathless image, to the ground.

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

But

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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 snowy leaves are shed,
And strew with dying sweets their native bed,

THE THE

FORCE of RELIGION;

OR,

VANQUISH'D LOVE:

воок ІІ.

Hic pietatis honos ? fic nos in fceptra reponis ?

VIRG.

HE

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, restores the fire :
She rear'd her swimming eye, and saw the light,
And Guilford too, or she had loath'd the fight :
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 gufts of passion blew,
Was ruffled in the tempeft, and withdrew.

So the youth lost his image in the well,
When tears upon the yielding surface fell :

The

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