FROM these lone shades and ever-gloomy bowers, Once the dear scenes of Henry's softer hours! What tender strains of passion can impart The pangs of absence to an amorous heart! Souls pair'd like ours, like ours to union wrought, O then, by that mysterious art, divine As in the tenderness of soul I sigh, Methinks I hear thy tender soul reply; And as in thought, o'er heaps of heroes slain, So bowers the shade, so melt my tears for thee! How oft night stole, unheeded, on the day! Our soft-breath'd raptures charm'd the listening grove, And all was harmony, for all was love! But hark! the trumpet sounds! see discords rise! 'Tis honor calls; from me my Henry flies! Honor to him, more bright than Rosamonda's eyes! Not thus my honor with his passion strove, His sighs I pitied, and indulg'd his love: He then cried, "honor was an empty name, Oh! had I liv'd in some obscure retreat, Securely fair, and innocently sweet; How had I bless'd some humble shepherd's arms! How kept my fame as spotless as my charms! |