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Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art
Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart.
And if she met him, though she smiled no more,

She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store

She must not own, but cherish'd more the while For that compression in its burning core;

Even innocence itself has many a wile, And will not dare to trust itself with truth, And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. But passion most dissembles yet betrays

Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays

Its working through the vainly guarded eye,
And in whatever aspect it arrays

Itself, 'tis still the same hypocrisy ;
Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate,
Are masks it often wears, and still too late.
Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,

And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,
And burning blushes, though for no transgression,

Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left; All these are little preludes to possession,

Of which young passion cannot be bereft, And merely tend to show how greatly Love is Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice.

She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow ; pale

She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their tears, Like skies that rain and lighten; as a veil,

Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears

Her streaming bair; the black curls strive, but fail,

To hide the glossy shoulder, which uprears Its snow through all ;-her soft lips lie apart, And louder than her breathing beats her heart.

JULIA'S LETTER. “ They tell me 'tis decided; you depart:

'Tis wise-'tis well, but not the less a pain ; I have no further claim on your young heart,

Mine is the victim, and would be again;
To love too much has been the only art

I used ;-I write in haste, and if a stain
Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears,
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.
I loved, I love you, for this love have lost

State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem, And yet cannot regret what it hath cost,

So dear is still the memory of that dream;
Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast,

None can deem harshlier of me than I deem;
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest
I've nothing to reproach, or to request.
Man's love is of man's life a thing apart,

'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart,

Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart,

And few there are, whom these can not estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone. You will proceed in pleasure and in pride,

Beloved, and loving many; all is o'er

For me on earth, except some years to hide

My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core:
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside

The passion which still rages as before,
And so farewell—forgive me, love me—No,
That word is idle now_but let it go.
My breast has been all weakness, is so yet;

But still I think I can collect my mind;
My blood still rushes where my spirit's set,

As roll the waves before the settled wind :
My heart is feminine, nor can forget-

To all, except one image, madly blind;
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul.
I have no more to say, but linger still,

And dare not set my seal upon this sheet;
And yet I may as well the task fulfil,

My misery can scarce be more complete: I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill: [meet,

Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would And I must even survive this last adieu, And bear with life, to love and pray for you !".

KALED. Light was his form, and darkly delicate That brow whereon his native sun had sate, But had not marred, though in his beams he grew, The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone

through; Yet not such blush as mounts when health would All the heart's hue in that delighted glow; (show But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care That for a burning moment fever'd there;

And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught
From high, and lighten’d with electric thought,
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe
Had temper’d with a melancholy tinge ;
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there,
Or if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share:
And pleased not him the sports that please his age,
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page;
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance,
As all forgotten in that watchful trance ;
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone,
Brief were his answers, and his questions none;
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book :
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook :
He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart;
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth
No gift beyond that bitter boon-our birth.

If aught he loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown
His faith in reverence and in deeds alone;
In mute attention : and his care, which guess'd
Each wish, fulfilled it ere the tongue expressed.
Still there was haughtiness in all he did,
A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid;
His zeal, though more than that of servile hands,
In act alone obeys, his air commands;
As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire
That thus he served, but surely not for hire.
Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord,
To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ;
To tune his lute, or if he will'd it more,
On tomes of other times and tongues to pore;
But ne'er to mingle with the menial train,
To whom he showed nor deference nor disdain,

But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew
No sympathy with that familiar crew :
His soul, whate'er his station or his stem,
Could bow to Lara, not descend to them.
Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days,
No mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays,
So femininely white it might bespeak
Another sex, when matched with that smooth cheek,
But for his garb, and something in his gaze,
More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ;
A latent fierceness that far more became
His fiery climate than his tender frame:
True, in his words it broke not from his breast,
But from his aspect might be more than guess'd.
Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore
Another ere he left his mountain-shore;
For sometimes he would hear, however nigh,
That name repeated loud without reply,
As unfamiliar, or if roused again,
Start to the sound, as but remember'd then;
Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake,
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake.

LAMENT FOR A FRIEND. Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! Whom youth and youth's affection bound to me; Who did for me what none beside have done, Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be! Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home, Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall

Would they had never been, or were to come! Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to

roam !

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