XXIV.

And sadly pondering on what she had known,
She sorrow'd for her melancholy fate,
Fondly recalling days for ever gone,

When virtuous love could make her heart elate;
And happiness though churchmen wisely teach,
Is not of earth, appear'd within her reach.

XXV.

For then affliction never had come nigh,

Ambition knew her not, nor idle pride;
Remote alike from pomp and poverty,

Her hours were wont in gay content to glide.
And ardent love told unsuspecting youth,
Of ceaseless constancy and lasting truth.

XXVI.

It may not be that language can impart

The thrilling joy, the bosom's altered tone, The wishes that the recognising heart,

Fears to acknowledge though compell'd to own, When love first sparkles in the maiden's eye,

Language in vain attempts to soar so high.

XXVII.

Nor less unequal to the deep despair
With which successfully no mind can cope,
When mean neglect of the confiding fair,
Annihilates the fondly-cherished hope,

The fierce extremes of transport and distress
Those who have known, attempt not to express.

XXVIII.

But to the worst calamity the mind,

(A God of mercy has ordain'd it so,) Becomes inured, grows tranquil and resign’d And entertains with decency its woe.

Eliza's gaiety and peace were fled,

But she was calm-no tear the charmer shed.

XXIX.

She strove to soothe a mother too who grieved, Calamity was destined to o'erwhelm,

And that her husband, by a friend deceived

Had been compelled to seek a foreign realm. There fortune seem'd some kindness to denote,

But joy was distant, his return remote..

XXX.

Their sorrow somewhat was indeed abated,

Though still the mother sighed with anxious fears, Those are not very easily elated,

Who know the sad vicissitudes of years,

Who know how often parted by the main

Hearts sigh to meet that ne'er may meet again.

XXXI.

Eliza sometimes wonder'd that her lover

Since changed their circumstances never came. In wealth or poverty which e'er might prove her, Her own affections must remain the same. She therefore thought-the idea might be strange, Such accidents in him could make no change.

XXXII.

But to the opera on a free admission
Eliza's brother taking her with him,
To see Giovanni's frolics and perdition,
With Scaramouch Pedrillo's tricks and whim,
Delia and Tom she saw. How she retired
I need not tell that night her hopes expired.

XXXIII.

Day followed day, but still no solace brought, The tear of weakness she forbade to flow, But with unutterable sorrow fraught,

Alone the sufferer mourn'd in silent woe; Though indisposed the anguish to impart, Which now had full possession of her heart.

XXXIV.

And much she wish'd externally to wear
Such aspect, no one near her might infer
The sorrow that consumed-she could not bear
That any one should shed a tear for her.
Though with excruciating anguish wrung,
To soothe her mother, thus she sometimes sung.

Song.

When last a parent's fond adieu

Burst sadly on my aching ear,
With trembling footsteps I withdrew,
Imperfectly repress'd the tear.

And as the vehicle too fast

Retires, for one more glimpse I strain,

And sigh the fleeting vision past.

Soon may we meet in joy again!

And Hope, prophetic, would suggest
Grief at no distant time shall cease,
That thou, dear absent one, shall rest,
Restored to affluence and peace.

Still for the coming of that joy
The call affectionately vain,

Will ceaselessly my hours employ,
Soon may we meet in joy again.

And if, far distant be that day,
The sad, the sacred duty mine,

To watch the couch of thy decay,

And o'er thy lifeless form recline ;

Oft to thy grave will I repair,

And night's congenial gloom, this strain

Shall hear, embodied in my prayer,