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But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.
Sandoval. Anxiously, Henry ! reasoning anxiously. But Oropeza
Earl Henry. Blessings gather round her!
me, To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembledI heard her heart beat—if 'twere not my own.
Sandoval. A rude and scaring note, my friend ! Earl Henry.
Oh! no ! I have small memory of aught but pleasure. The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams Still flowing, still were lost in those of love : So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature, Fleeing from pain, sheltered herself in joy. The stars above our heads were dim and steady, Like eyes suffused with rapture.—Life was in us :
We were all life, each atom of our frames
than as eastern sages paint,
Ah! was that bliss
them. Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice :“Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou ?” I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed The purpose
and the substance of my being, I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, I would exchange my unblenched state with hers.Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower I now will go—all objects there will teach me Unwavering love, and singleness of heart. Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet herSay nothing of me-I myself will seek herNay, leave me, friend ! I cannot bear the torment And keen inquiry of that scanning eye.
[Earl Henry retires into the wood.]
Sandoval salone]. O Henry ! always striv'st thou
to be great
TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN,
WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF
MYRTLE-LEAF that, ill besped,
Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Far from thy protecting spray!
Whirred along the yellow vale,
Love the dalliance of the gale.
Heave and flutter to his sighs,
Wooed and whispered thee to rise.
Wert thou danced and wafted high-
Flung to fade, to rot, and die.
TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN
AT THE THEATRE.
MAIDEN, that with sullen brow
Sitt'st behind those virgins gay, Like a scorched and mildewed bough,
Leafless, 'mid the blooms of May ! Him who lured thee and forsook,
Oft I watched with angry gaze, Fearful saw his pleading look,
Anxious heard his fervid phrase. Soft the glances of the youth,
Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ; But no sound like simple truth,
But no true love in his eye. Loathing thy polluted lot,
Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence !
With a wiser innocence.
Thou hast felt that vice is woe:
Inly armed, go, Maiden ! go. Mother sage of self-dominion,
Firm thy steps, O Melancholy ! The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion Is the
memory of past folly. Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,
While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimmed the tender corn,
Or the beanfield's odorous blooms.
Soon with renovated wing
Shall she dare a loftier flight,
And embathe in heavenly light.
LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM.
In intricacies of laborious song.
These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign
To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint ; But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain
Bursts in a squall—they gape for wonderment. Hark! the deep buzz of vanity and hate!
Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,
While the pert captain, or the primmer priest,
O give me, from this heartless scene released,
To hear our old musician, blind and grey (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed),
His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play,
Or lies the purple evening on the bay
Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees,