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Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ?
When cease to hear thy cherish'd name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness,
While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.
Alas! for them, though not for thee,
They cannot choose but weep the more; Deep for the dead the grief must be,
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.
WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah, happy! if each tear of thine
Could wash a father's fault away!
Weep—for thy tears are Virtue's tears
Auspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles !
FROM THE TURKISH.
The chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound, The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.
These gifts were charm’d by secret spell
Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
That chain was firm in
link, But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet-till thou could'st think
In other hands its notes were such.
Let him, who from thy neck unbound
grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
The chain is broke, the music mute: 'Tis past—to them and thee adieu
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
Thine eyes blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features caught
Seems Sorrow's softness charm’d from its despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent) The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn
Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.