"Yes-had I ever proved that passion's zeal,
"The change to hatred were at least to feel:
"But still he goes unmourn'd-returns unsought-
"And oft when present-absent from my thought.
Or when reflection comes, and come it must-
"I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust;
"I am his slave-but, in despite of pride,

" "Twere worse than bondage to become his bride.
"Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease!
"Or seek another and give mine release,
"But yesterday I could have said, to peace!
"Yes-if unwonted fondness now I feign,
"Remember-captive! 'tis to break thy chain.
"Repay the life that to thy hand I owe;
"To give thee back to all endear'd below,
"Who share such love as I can never know.
"Farewell-morn breaks-and I must now away:
""Twill cost me dear-but dread no death to-day!

1130

XV.

She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart,

And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart,

1140

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone.

And was she here? and is he now alone?

What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his chain?
The tear most sacred-shed for others' pain—
That starts at once-bright-pure-from Pity's mine,
Already polish'd by the hand divine!

Oh! too convincing-dangerously dear-
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear!

That weapon of her weakness she can wield,
To save-
Avoid it-Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs,

-subdue-at once her

spear and shield

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers!
What lost a world, and bade a hero fly?
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye.

Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven,

By this-how many lose not earth-but heaven !

Consign their souls to man's eternal foe,

And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe!

1150

XVI.

"Tis morn—and o'er his alter'd features play

1160

The beams-without the hope of yesterday.

What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing:
By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt,

While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt,
Chill-wet-and misty round each stiffened limb,
Refreshing earth-reviving all but him !—

END OF CANTO II.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;

Not as in Northern climes obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light!
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows.
On old Ægina's rock, and Idra's isle,

The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.

1170