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The rugged metal of the mine
Must burn before its surface shine,
But plunged within the furnace-flame,
It bends and melts-though still the same;
Then temper'd to thy want, or will,
'Twill serve thee to defend or kill;
A breast-plate for thine hour of need,
Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed;
But if a dagger's form it bear,
Let those who shape its edge, beware!
Thus passion's fire, and woman's art,
Can turn and tame the sterner heart;
From these its form and tone are ta’en,
And what they make it, must remain,
But break-before it bend again.

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If solitude succeed to grief,
Release from pain is slight relief;
The vacant bosom's wilderness
Might thank the pang that made it less.
We loathe what none are left to share:
Even bliss—’twere wo alone to bear;
The heart once left thus desolate
Must fly at last for ease-to hate.
It is as if the dead could feel
The icy worm around them steal,

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And shudder, as the reptiles creep
To revel o'er their rotting sleep,
Without the power to scare away
The cold consumers of their clay!
It is as if the desert-bird, (39)
Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream

To still her famish'd nestlings' scream,
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd,
Should rend her rash devoted breast,
And find them flown her empty nest.
The keenest pangs the wretched find

Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desert of the mind,

The waste of feelings unemploy'd.
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon
A sky without a cloud or sun ?
Less hideous far the tempest's roar
Than ne'er to brave the billows more-
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er,
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore,
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay,
Unseen to drop by dull decay;
Better to sink beneath the shock
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

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“ Father! thy days have pass'd in peace,

“ 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer; “ To bid the sins of others cease,

“ Thyself without a crime or care,

“ Save transient ills that all must bear, 975 “ Has been thy lot from youth to age; " And thou wilt bless thee from the rage “ Of passions fierce and uncontroll’d, 6 Such as thy penitents unfold, " Whose secret sins and sorrows rest

980 “ Within thy pure and pitying breast. “ My days, though few, have pass'd below “In much of joy, but more of wo; “ Yet still in hours of love or strife, “ I've 'scaped the weariness of life:

985 “Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, “ I loathed the languor of repose. “ Now nothing left to love or hate, “ No more with hope or pride elate, “ I'd rather be the thing that crawls

990 “ Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, “ Than pass my dull, unvarying days, “ Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. “ Yet, lurks a wish within my breast “For rest—but not to feel 'tis rest.

995 “ Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil;

“And I shall sleep without the dream “ Of what I was, and would be still,

“ Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : « My memory pow is but the tomb

1000 “ Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom: “ Though better to have died with those “ Than bear a life of lingering woes.

“ My spirit shrunk not to sustain “ The searching throes of ceaseless pain; 1005 “Nor sought the self-accorded grave “ Of ancient fool and modern knave: “ Yet death I have not fear'd to meet; " And in the field it had been sweet, “ Had danger woo'd me on to move

1010 “ The slave of glory, not of love. “ I've braved it—not for honour's boast; " I smile at laurels won or lost; - To such let others carve their way, - For high renown, or hireling pay:

1015 “ But place again before my eyes “ Aught that I deem a worthy prize; “ The maid I love, the man I hate, “ And I will hunt the steps of fate, “ To save or slay, as these require, “ Through rending steel, and rolling fire; “ Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from one “ Who would but do-what he hath done. “ Death is but what the haughty brave, “The weak must bear, the wretch must crave; 1025 “ Then let Life go to him who gave: “ I have not quail'd to danger's brow - When high and happy-need I now ?

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- I loved her, friar! nay, adored

But these are words that all can use



“ I proved it more in deed than word;
“ There's blood upon that dinted sword,

“ A stain its steel can never lose:
6 'Twas shed for her, who died for me,

“ It warm'd the heart of one abhorr’d: 1035 “ Nay, start not-no-nor bend thy knee,

“ Nor midst my sins such act record; “ Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, “ For he was hostile to thy creed ! “ The very name of Nazarene

1040 “ Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. “ Ungrateful fool! since but for brands 66 Well wielded in some hardy hands, “ And wounds by Galileans given, “ The surest pass to Turkish heaven, “ For him his Houris still might wait “ Impatient at the prophet's gate. - I loved her-love will find its way “ Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, “ And if it dares enough, 'twere hard

1050 “ If passion met not some reward“ No matter how, or where, or why, “ I did not vainly seek, nor sigh: “ Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain “I wish she had not loved again.

1055 “ She died—I dare not tell thee how; “But look—'tis written on my brow! “ There read of Cain the curse and crime, • In characters unworn by time:

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