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From these lone shades and ever-gloomy bowers,
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, I trace thy progress on the fatal plain, Perhaps thy thought explores me thro' the grove, And, softening, steals an interval of love; In the deep covert of a bowering shade Describes my posture-languishingly laid ! Now, sadly solac'd with the murmuring springs, Now, melting into tears, the softest things! And how the feign'd ideas all agree ! So bowers the shade, so melt my tears for thee! Here, as in Eden, once we blissful lay, 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, « And love a sweeter recompense than fame.''
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 !