Endure that from a bosom, once so dear, Eternal darkness on those eye-lids hung? For this my breast its cureless woes shall hide, Nor sting fraternal love, nor generous pride. Yes, dear Lorenzo! thou shalt still believe, Though much the thought thy gentle breast will grieve, Louisa, lost to tenderness, and truth, In the vain levity of thoughtless youth, Proved to Eugenio's love a cold ingrate, Cruel Remembrance! how shall I assuage The yearning pangs of thy incessant rage? What balmy comfort can the heart pervade, When bitter tears his broken faith upbraid, Whose hand, we fondly hoped, should wipe away Their flowing sorrows through each future day? Since in Reflection's grasp each blessing dies, When the forced struggling spirit must despise Him who, encircled with perfection's zone, Long in our sight scarce less than angel shone. For if Credulity her warmth impart, With veils of light she screens the selfish heart; But barbarous Perfidy's severe extreme, In shades eternal, shrouds each gorgeous beam. On the arch'd windows thus, that proudly grace An high majestic temple's awful face, When pours the setting sun its darting rays, An hundred solar orbs appear to blaze; Its evanescent fires no more remain, But horrors gather round the darken'd fane; The lofty turrets, desolately grand, In dreary state, and lonely silence stand; Though the dim aisles pale spectres seem to fleet, And hollow groans the whispering walls repeat. So, round Eugenio's form, that rises yet, 'Mid Pride's cold frown, and Passion's warm regret, Deprived of all the lustre it retain❜d, When gay belief with sunny hue remain'd, Detested impotence of flatter'd charms, Like opening flow'rs, that deck the desert glade, Fair to no purpose, flatter'd graces fade!— One healing draught—and all shall yet be well! 'Peace is the pale-ey'd sister of the cell,' The cell of DEATH-where Misery only knows The soft exemption,-and the long repose. Ah no!-a guardian spirit seems to say, Stay thee, Louisa, yet a little stay! Who, shut for ever from the blissful bow'rs, The sweet reward On heroes, patriots, righteous kings conferr❜d. Tune ye Seems he not rank'd among the gods? And taste the pleasures of the blest abodes. EPODE 2. Hail, happy prince! on whom kind fate bestows Than Cressy's palm, and every wreath that grows A dying nation to restore, And save fall'n liberty with kingly pow'r; • Edward III. by whom the Order of the Garter was founded. To quench the torch of discord and debate, And gloriously compleat the plan of England's weal; That on the rock of justice rear'd shall stand Which virtue rais'd on Tiber's strand. And from the realms of everlasting day Thee, the great miracle of earth, a PATRIOT-KING. |