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Is not the damning line
Of guilt and grief engraven on me now?
And the fierce passion which hath scathed thy brow,

Hath it not blasted mine ?

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No matter! I will turn
To the straight path of duty ; I have wrought,
At last, my wayward spirit to be taught

What it hath yet to learn.

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Labour shall be my lot ;
My kindred shall be joyful in my praise ;
And Fame shall twine for me, in after days,

A wreath I covet not.

And if I cannot make,
Dearest ! thy hope my hope, thy trust my trust,
Yet will I study to be good, and just,

And blameless, for thy sake.

Thou may’st have comfort yet!
Whate'er the source from which those waters glide,
Thou hast found healing mercy in their tide ;

Be happy and forget !

Forget me—and farewell !
But say not that in me new hopes and fears,
Or absence, or the lapse of gradual years,

Will break thy memory's spell !

Indelibly, within, All I have lost is written ; and the theme Which Silence whispers to my thoughts and dreams

Is sorrow still—and sin!

THE CONFESSION OF DON CARLOS.

O TELL not me of broken vow-
I speak a firmer passion now;
0! tell not me of shattered chain-
The link shall never burst again;
My soul is fix'd as firmly here
As the red Sun in his career ;
As Victory on Mina's crest,
Or Tendernesss 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
The tale thy malice knows so well ?
I may not disobey thee !—Yes !
Thou bidst me,—and I will confess :-
See how adoringly I kneel-
Hear how my folly I reveal ;
My folly !—chide me if thou wilt,
Thou shalt not-canst not call it-guilt.

And when my faithlessness is told,
Ere thou hast time to play the scold,
I'll haste the fond rebuke to check,
And lean upon thy snowy neck,
Play with its glossy auburn hair,
And hide the blush of falsehood there.

Inez, the innocent and young, First snared my heart, and waked my song ; We both were harmless, and untaught To love as fashionables ought ; With all the modesty of youth, We talk'd of constancy and truth ; Grew fond of Music, and the Moon, And wander'd 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 talk'd of faith and feelings, With no distrustings, no concealings; And aye we joy’d in stolen glances, And sigh’d, and blush’d, and read romances.

Our love was ardent and sincere,—
And lasted, Rosa-half a year !
And then the maid grew fickle-hearted,
Married Don Jose—so we parted.
At twenty-one, I've often heard,
My bashfulness was quite absurd ;
For, with a squeamishness uncommon,
I fear’d to love a married woman.

Fair Leonora's laughing eye Again awaked my song and sigh: A gay intriguing dame was she ; And fifty Dons of high degree, That came and went as they were bid, Dubb’d her the Beauty of Madrid. Alas! what constant pains I took To merit one approving look : I courted Valour—and the Muse, Wrote challenges—and billet-doux ; Paid for Sherbet and Serenade, Fenced with Pegru and Alvarade; Fought at the Bull-fights like a hero, Studied small-talk,—and the Bolero ;

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