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SELECT POMES. I no longer may resist them ;
All, to force my hand combine ; And to-morrow to thy rival
This weak fraine I must resign.
Yet think not thy faithful Zaida
Can survive so great a wrong ; Well my breaking heart affures me
That my woes will not be long,
Farewel then, my dear Alcanzor!
Farewel too my life with thee! Take this scarf, a parting token ;
When thou wear'ft it think on me.
Soon, lov’d youth, some worthier maiden
Shall reward thy generous truth; Sometimes tell her how thy Zaida
Died for thee in priime of youth !
To him, all amaz’d, confounded,
Thus she did her wóes impart; Deep he sigh'd, then cried, o Zaida!
Do nof, do not, break my heart!
Canst thou think I thus will lose thee?
Canst thou hold my love so small : No! a thousand times I'll perish !--My curit rival too fhall fall.
Canit thou, wilt thou yield thus to them
O break forth, and fly to me!
These fond arms shall shelter thee,
'Tis in vain, in vain, Alcanzor,
Spies surround me, bars secure ; Scarce I steal this last dear moment,
While my damsel keeps the door.
Hark, I hear my father storming !
Hark, I hear my mother chide ! I must go : farewel for ever!
Gracious Alla be thy guide!
HE midnight clock has tollid; and hark !
the bell Or death beats Now! heard ye the note profound? It pauses now; and now, with rising knell,
Flings to the hollow gale its fullen found.
Yes; Coventry is dead. Attend the strain.
Daughters of Albion! ye that, light as air, So oft have tripp'd in her fantastic train,
With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair :
For she was fair beyond your brightest bloom
(This envy owns, fince now her bloom is filed ;) Fair as the forms that wove in fancy's loom,
Float in light vision round the poet's head,
Whene'er with soft serenity the smild,
Or caught the orient blush of quick furprise, How sweetly mutable, how brightly, wild,
The liquid lustre darted from her eyes !
Each look, each motion, wak'd a new-born grace
That o'er her form its transient glory cast: Some lovelier wonder foon usurp'd the place;
Chas’d by a charm still lovelier than the last.
That bell again! It tells us what she is ;
On what she was, no more the itrain prolong; Luxuriant fancy pause ! an hour like this
Demands the tribute of a serious fong.
Maria claims it from that fable bier,
Where cold and wan the numb'rer refts her head. In ftill small whispers to reflection's ear
Sne breaths the solemn dictates of the dead.
O catch the awful notes, and lift them loud!
Proclaim the theme by fage, by fool, rever'd; Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud !
'Tis nature speaks, and nature will be heard.
Yes; ye shall hear, and tremble as you hear,
While, high with health, your hearts exulting leap;: Ee’n in rhe midst of pleasure's mad career,
The mental monitor shall wake and weep!
For say, than Coventry's propitious ftar
What brighter planet on your births arose ? Or gave of fortune's gifts an ampler share,
In life to lavilh, or by death to lose?
Ye lip the nectar of each varying bloom ;
The wint’ry form that sweeps you to the tomb;
Think of her fate! revere the heav'nly hand
That led her hence, though soon, by steps so Now; Long at her couch Death took his patient stand,
And menac'd oft, and oft with-held the blow :
To give reflection time, with lenient art,
Each fond delusion from her soul to steal; Teach her from folly peaceably to part,
And wean her from a world the lov'd so well.
Say, are ye sure his mercy shall extend
To you so long a span? Alas, ye figh! Make then, while yet ye may, your God your friend,
And learn with equal ease to sleep or die!
Nor think the mure, whose sober voice ye hear,
Contracts with bigot frown her sullen brow; Cafts round religion's orb the mifts of fear,
Or shades with horrors what with siniles should glow.
No; she would warm you with seraphic fire,
Heirs as ye are of Heaven's eternal day ; Would bid you boldly to that heav'n afpire,
Not sink and number in your cells of clay.
Know, ye were form’d to range yon'azure field,
In yon ætherial founts of bliss to lave: Force then, secure in faith's protecting fhield,
The fting from death, the vict'ry from the grave !
Is this the bigots rant? Away ye vain,
Your hopes, your fears, in doubt, in dulness steep; Go footh your souls in fickness, grief, or pain,
With the sad solace of eternal Neep!
Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are,
More than those preachers of your fav’rite creed, Who proudly swell the brazen throat of war,
Who from the phalanx, bid the battle blecd.