Oh, pangs of absence, amply now repaid!

Nor yet had ceas'd the strain; but now the queen

Saw one that press'd the plain with hasty step;

His head the helmet bore, his hand the spear.

Sudden with beating heart she ran, she flew;
"And comes my lord?" with eager voice she cried.
But when she saw his bent and mournful brow,
His downcast eye, and mark'd his fault'ring voice,
Ere yet his tardy words an utterance found,

She guess'd the worst. At once through every nerve
Shoots quick the thrilling anguish. With fix'd eye
Gazing on empty air, hands firmly clasp'd,

And pale and ghastly cheek, she stands. In vain

Her sad attendants with assiduous care

Would sooth her grief. As if depriv'd of sense,
Their words she hears not, nor regards their tears.
So Niobe appear'd, when her last hope,
Pierc'd by relentless Dian's vengeful shaft,

Fell from her clasping arms, a breathless corse.

Now on her widow'd couch Estrildis lies,
Still in mute sorrow rapt, with eyes still fix'd,
And looks that witness'd deep despair. Till day
Declines, and through the solemn hours of night,
Which sooth with welcome rest each lighter woe,
Now by loud wailing, by entreaty now,

Constant and warmly urg'd, the damsel train
Would wake attention: now the winning charm
Of music breathes unheard: her darling Sabra
With sweet caresses wooes her wonted smile,
And now implores regard with piteous tears;

Those sweet caresses she bestows in vain,

And long those tears unnotic'd fall. At length

Sudden upon her child she cast her view.

Then gush'd the torrent. Springing from the couch,

Round the dear pledge of her disastrous loves

She clasp'd her agonizing arms; she wept,

She sobb'd aloud; and much with fault'ring tongue,

In broken murmurs, while the bursting tears

Stream on her breast, complains: "My child, my child!

Why did I bear thee? Thou wilt curse the hour

That gave thee to behold the light of day;

And her that bore thee. Oh that pitying fate

Had cut my thread of life in early youth!

And must I bear the bitter scorn, the taunts
Of haughty Guendolen? Alas, alas!

There was a time when all her rage was vain

;

But now the noble Locrine is no more.

What then remains but death? Oh fatal charms!

Oh beauty, once so priz'd, but now abhorr'd!
Then, then I should have died, when first he sought

To move my virgin heart with guilty love;
When first my conscious bosom felt the flame.

He had liv'd happy yet. Oh Guendolen !

Sure never pity touch'd that savage breast,

Nor gentle love held soft dominion there.
Had I forsaken mourn'd my slighted charms,
In tears my lonely hours had pass'd away;

I would have piero'd the air with heavy sighs,
And sorrow'd till my aching heart was broke,

And death had wrapp'd me in eternal rest;

But never, never thought of curst revenge,

And stain'd my hands with blood, to me more dear

Than is the vital stream which warms my heart.

Alas! for him alone I wish'd to live:

In him was all my joy; to make him blest
My only hope; and, but to see him blest,
Though in another's arms, had broke the gloom
Of black despair with some faint beams of bliss.
But thou hast not the soul of woman; thou

Art merciless; his blood is on thy steel.

Mine too must stream; and oh, might mine suffice,

My ready hand should give the torrent way.

But thou, my child, poor wretched orphan! oh,

What is reserv'd for thee? A mother's love

Clings to thee still, and binds me yet to life."

Thus as she mourns, the tears incessant stream,

Sighs follow sighs, and groan succeeds to groan.
From her dim eyes soft lustre beams no more;
Her cheek is faded, and her lips are pale.

So beneath southern skies, some tender plant
Lifts its fair head, and courts the solar ray:
Transplanted now, while summer's genial pow'r

With transient beauty paints some northern clime,
It blooms in all its native charms array'd:

But when stern winter comes, and in his train

Bleak storms, and hail, and snows, and killing frost,

Discolour'd all its drooping leaves are seen,

And, scarcely blown, its blossoms strew the ground.
Now in the sweet abode of love and joy

Glitters the deadly lance, the helmet flames;
And where the lute's soft notes, and softer voice

Of amorous maiden, breath'd enchanting airs,

The trumpet's clangor rings. A warlike train,

Charg'd with their sovereign's stern commands, appear!

Plung'd in despair, with mighty grief oppress'd,