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O had he made that too his prey; That beak whence issu'd many a lay
Of such mellifluous tone, Might have repaid him well, I wote, For silencing so sweet a throat,
Fast stuck within his own.
Maria weeps—the Muses mourn-
On Thracian Hebrus' side
The cruel death he died.
The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
And weigh'd down it's beautiful head.
The cup was all fillid, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd to a fanciful view,
for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew,
I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.
And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Already to sorrow resign’d.
Might have bloom'd with it's owner a while;
May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
Man yet mistakes his way,
And heard the voice of love;
No time shall disengage,
And constancy sincere,
And mine can read them there;
Shall ne'er be felt by me,
VII. 'Tis then I feel myself a wife,
And press thy wedded side, Resolv'd an union form'd for life
Death never shall divide.
(Forgive a transient thought) Thou could become unkind at last, And scorn thy present lot,
IX. No need of lightnings from on high,
Or kites with cruel beak: Denied th’ endearments of thine eye,
This widow'd heart would break.
Soft as the passing wind,
A lesson for mankind.
A Raven, while with glossy breast