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Her wonted wit began to fail, Her eyes grew dim, her features pale; Her fame was past, her race was done, Her lovers left her one by one; Her slaves diminished by degrees, They ceased to fawn—as she to please. Last of the gay, deceitful crew, Chremes, the usurer, withdrew; By many an art he strove to net The guineas of the rich coquette; But (so the adverse fates decreed) Chremes and Laura disagreed; For Chremes talked too much of stocks, And Laura of her opera-box.
Unhappy Laural sadness marred What tints of beauty time had spared; For all her wide-extended sway Had faded, like a dream, away : And they that loved her passed her by With altered or averted eye. That silent scorn, that chilling air, The fallen tyrant could not bear ; She could not live when none admired, And perished, as her reign expired.
I gazed upon that lifeless form, So late with hope and fancy warm; That pallid brow, that eye of jet,
Where lustre seems to linger yet;
THE CONFESSION OF DON CARLOS.
IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.
On 1 tell not me of broken vow— I speak a firmer passion now ; Oh! tell not me of shattered chain— The link shall never burst again; My soul is fixed as firmly here As the red Sun in his career; As Victory on Mina's crest, Or Tenderness in Rosa's breast. Then do not tell me, while we part, Of fickle flame, and roving heart; While Youth shall bow at Beauty’s shrine, That flame shall glow—that heart be thine.
Then wherefore dost thou bid me tell
I’ll haste the fond rebuke to check,
Inez, the innocent and young, First shared my heart, and waked my song; We were both harmless, and untaught To love as fashionables ought ; With all the modesty of youth, We talked of constancy and truth ; Grew fond of Music, and the Moon, And wandered on the nights of June, To sit beneath the chestnut-tree, While the lonely stars shone mellowly, Shedding a pale and dancing beam On the wave of Guadalquivir’s stream. And aye we talked of faith and feelings, With no distrustings, no concealings; And aye we joyed in stolen glances, And sighed, and blushed, and read romances. Our love was ardent and sincere, And lasted, Rosa—half a year! And then the maid grew fickle-hearted, Married Don José–so we parted. At twenty-one, I’ve often heard, My bashfulness was quite absurd; For, with a squeamishness uncommon, I feared to love a married woman.
Fair Leonora's laughing eye