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He loves too well that cruel gift to use,
Which Pompey lov'd too little to refuse :
Fain would he call my vagrant lord again,
But I the kind ambassador restrain;
I scorn to let another take my part,
And to myself will owe or lose thy heart.
Can nothing e'er rekindle love in thee?
Can nothing e'er extinguish it in me?
That I could tear thee from this injur'd breast!
And where you gave my person, give the rest,
At once to grant and punish thy request.
That I could place thy worthy rival there!
No second insult need my fondness fear:
He views not Flora with her Pompey's eyes,
He loves like me, he doats, despairs, and dies.
Come to my arms, thou dear deserving youth!
Thou prodigy of man! thou man with truth !
For him, I will redouble every care,
To please, for him, these faded charms repair ;
To crown his vows, and sharpen thy despair.
Oh! 'tis illusion all! and idle rage !
No second passion can this heart engage;
And shortly, Pompey, shall thy Flora prove,
Death may diffolye, but nothing change her love.
When Marius was expelled from Rome by Sylla's faction,
and retired into Africa, bis fon (who accompanied bim) fell into the hands of Hiempfal king of Numidia, who kept bim prisoner.' One of the mifresses of that king fell in love with Marius junior, and was so generous to contrive and give bim bis liberty, though by that means she sacrificed ber love for ever. 'Twas after be kad rejoin'd bis fatber, that he writ him the following letter.
F all I valued, all I lov’d, bereft,
Say, has my heart this little comfort left?
That you the mem’ry of its truth retain,
And think with grateful pity on my pain ?
Though but with life my sorrows can have end,
(For death alone can join me to my friend)
Yet think not I repent I set you free,
I mourn your absence, not your liberty.
Before my Marius left Numidia's coast,
Each day I saw him ; scarce an hour was lost:
Now months and years must pass, nay life shall prove
But one long absence from the man I love.
Painful reflection ! poyson to my mind !
Was it but mortal too, it would be kind :
But mad with grief I search the palace round,
And in that madness dream you're to be found.
Would'st thou believe it ? to those walls I fly
Where thou wert captive held ; there frantic cry,
These fetters sure my vagrant's fight restrain'd;
Alas! these fetters I myself unchain’d.
The live-long day I mourn, I loath the light,
And wait impatient each returning night :
What, though the horrid gloom augment my grief?
'Tis grateful ftill, for I disclaim relief.
That coz’ner hope intrudes not on my woe ;
One only interval my sorrows know;
When dreams, the kind reversers of my pain,
Bring back my charming fugitive again.
Yet there's a grief surpassing all the rest;
A jealous dæmon whispers in my breast,
Marius was false, for liberty alone
The show of love the hypocrite put on.
Then I reflect (ah! would I could forget !)
How much your thoughts on war and Rome were set.
How little passion did that conduct prove !
Too forong thy reason, but too weak thy love.
Thy sword, 'tis true, a father's cause demands;
But 'twas a mistress gave it to thy hands :
To love, and duty just, give each their part,
His be the arm, and mine be all thy heart.
But what avail these thoughts ? fond wretch, give o'er!
Marius, or false, or true, is thine no more:
Since Fate has cast the lot, and we must part,
Wliy should I wish to think I had his heart?
Yes: let me cherish that remembrance still;
That thought alone Mail soften every ill;
To tell my soul, his love, his truth was such,
All was his due, nor have I done too much,
Deceitful comfort ! let me not persuade
My cred’lous heart its fondness was repaid ;
It makes my soul with double anguish mourn
Those joys, which never, never must return.
Perhaps év'n you what most I wish oppose,
And in the Roman all the lover lose :
I'm a Numidian, and your soul disdains
To bear th' inglorious weight of foreign chains.
Can any climate then so barb'rous prove,
To stand excluded from the laws of Love?
His empire's universal, unconfin'd,
His proxy beauty, and his slaves mankind.
Nor am I a Numidian but by name,
For I can int’rest for my love disclaim:
My virtue shews what 'twas the gods design'd,
By chance on Afric's clay they stamp'd a Roman mind.
Not all the heroes which your Rome can boast,
So much for fame, as I for
have loft: Yourself I lost: oh! grateful, then confess, My tryal greater, though my glory less.