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IX. I once was quick in feeling--that is o'er ;My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd My brain against these bars as the sun flash'd In mockery through them ;-if I bear and bore The much I have recounted, and the more Which hath no words, 'tis that I would not die And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie Which snared me here, and with the brand of shame Stamp madness deep into my memory, And woo compassion to a blighted name, Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. No--it shall be immortal !-and I make A future temple of my present cell, Which nations yet shall visit for my

sake. While thou, Ferrara! when no longer dwell The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down, And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls, A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, While strangers wonder o'er thy unpeopled walls! And thou, Leonora! thou—who wert ashamed That such as I could love-who blush'd to hear To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, Go! tell thy brother that my heart, untamed By grief, years, weariness—and it may be A taint of that he would impute to me

From long infection of a den like this,
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss,
Adores thee still;—and add-that when the towers
And battlements which guard his joyous hours
Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot,
Or left untended in a dull repose,
This—this shall be a consecrated spot!
But Thou—when all that Birth and Beauty throws
Of magic round thee is extinct-shalt have
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave.
No power in death can tear our names apart,
As none in life could rend thee from my heart.
Yes, Leonora! it shall be our fate
To be entwined for ever- but too late!

POEMS.

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM,

1. As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer-by; Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,

May mine attract thy pensive eye!

And when by thee that name is read,

Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.

September 14th, 1809. TO * * *

Oh Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore, which gave me birth, I hardly thought to grieve once more,

To quit another spot on earth: Yet here, amidst this barren isle,

Where panting Nature droops the head, Where only thou art seen to smile,

I view my parting hour with dread. Though far from Albin's craggy shore,

Divided by the dark-blue main ; A few, brief, rolling seasons o’er,

Perchance I view her cliffs again : But wheresoe'er I now may roam,

Through scorching clime, and varied sea, Though Time restore me to my home,

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee: On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh! forgive the word—to love. Forgive the word, in one who ne'er

With such a word can more offend; And since thy heart I cannot share,

Believe me, what I am, thy friend.

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