XVI.

6

Art thou a woman?-Ay! the glorious face, O'erwhelming in its beauty, proves thy sex; But vainly here we seek one softened graceThis Circe-glance the startled thoughts perplex; It fascinates, but with demoniac powerWe shuddering turn from the half-angel fiend; Yet she, in youth, shone peerless in her bower; Was pure as the bright orb she proudly seemed, And smiled a Cynthia chaste 'mid stars that fairest beamed.

XVII.

Imperious Castlemaine doth queen it well—7
She quells in loveliness, as lightning's flash ;
But from those sleepy lids there drops a spell,
Alluring Middleton! would bid us dash

Into the quicksands of the heart's decoy,

Heedless and blind; e'en though the urchin, Love, Should deem the heart when gained a worthless toy, And, laughing, flee to his fair home above,

In his light mother's car, drawn by each soft-eyed dove.

XVIII.

Surely the spirit, speaking from this eye,8 The fair, rich waves of billowy silken hair Which woo the snows of maiden purity, That proudly swell with conscious virtue's air; Say thou wert pure as beauteous; and a fire Plays o'er thy brow, quenched in the gracefulness Of high-souled dignity! Oh! who could tire And turn from thee, fair Hamilton? We press The lyre in homage to thy blaze of lovliness!

XIX.

Frail Gwynn! say, where hath fled each joyous glance,9

And where have flown thy mirthful, dimpled smiles? And where wit's sparkle, that should gaily dance O'er brow and lip? Where all the prankful wiles Erst gained the heart of England's merry king? The eyes and locks are here, of which we've heard; But, sure, these lips around could never fling The light glad jest, the free and humorous wordOr wert thou, like thy sex, in each extreme absurd?

XX.

Here Denham shines in native loveliness;10

It did not save her from the poisoned bowl!
To view such sweetness, ah! who e'er could guess
Convulsed should be this brow, maddened the soul
That speaks so gently through these heavenly orbs ?
Yet thou fled'st timely from this scene of strife!
What though thy grace our yearning thought absorbs,
We cannot wail the briefness of thy life;

Thy pangs were short;-more years had seen fresh sorrows rife.

XXI.

Amidst these paler flowers, forth to the sight,

Magnificent in her dark beauty rare,

The lovely Falmouth shines! 11 'Neath brows of night
Dart meteor-rays, that seem to cleave the air!
Yet fall with deep intensity our eyes—

Startled and sad, we turn a lingering look

To the stern emblem, shadowed forth, that lies
Upon her lap ;-a voice none e'er mistook

Thrills to the musing mind a truth we scarcely brook!

XXII.

Wouldst thou have boundless wealth? look there'twas her's ;12

Fame-power? gaze on-ay, they too were her own!
And beauty? Wit, such as the heart's pulse stirs,
A costly gem of purest water shone

In thee proud form that queens it bravely there—
'Tis Marlborough's dame!-now mark the lip of scorn;
The head flung back with pride's repulsive air;
What fierce defiance in that glance is borne !
How much of woman's grace the haughty one is shorn!

XXIII.

Yet she had friends;-a Queen once called her " dear”;
And we must feel for the proud fiery one,

When first the knowledge smote upon her ear-
Struck to her heart-that bright Romance's sun
Was quenched by cunning of a menial's mind,

And dimmed the light of youth's enchanted morn !—
How strong the bond that could her fierce soul bind!
How keen the pang within her bosom born!
We guess-strong minds most deeply feel their sor

row's scorn.

XXIV.

High souls more fully feel convulsion's throe
When fervid love is backward on them flung;
Though seeming calm around their brows they throw,
Within, the germ writhes forth from anguish sprung :
Ah! coldly creeps the slowly-gnawing worm
Its blighting progress to the full heart's core;
'Midst slumbering flames, that there all hidden burn,
It laps the torrent of the life-fed gore,

Which in its warm, rich flow of love may gush no more!

XXV.

Her Queen!-Thou oft art praised—we heed it not;
Thou fled'st thy Parent in his hour of woe;

How soon thy firmest friends were all forgot!
How hard the heart that stayed not the sharp blow
Which sent an old man sorrowing to the grave,
Whose sword for thee had reddened many a shore!
That thy still heart ne'er boomed to passion's wave
Wins not our love; thy soul was iced all o'er,

Cold and benumbed, nor could soft fervencies outpour!