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jest books, and hymns, and indelicate ballads! The character of this woman is one of the many examples of talent and labour misapplied. It is very powerfully, and, we doubt not, very truly drawn-but it will attract few readers. Yet the story she is at last brought to tell of her daughter will command a more general interest.

"Ruth-I may tell, too oft had she been told!-
Was tall and fair, and comely to behold,
Gentle and simple; in her native place
Not one compared with her in form or face;
She was not merry, but she gave our hearth
A cheerful spirit that was more than mirth.

"There was a sailor boy, and people said
He was, as man, a likeness of the maid;
But not in this-for he was ever glad,
While Ruth was apprehensive, mild, and sad."-

They are betrothed-and something more than betrothed-when, on the eve of their wedding-day, the youth is carried relentlessly off by a press-gang; and soon after is slain in battle!-and a preaching weaver then woos, with nauseous perversions of scripture, the loathing and widowed bride. This picture, too, is strongly drawn ;-but we hasten to a scene of far more power as well as pathos. Her father urges her to wed the missioned suitor; and she agrees to give her answer on Sunday.

"She left her infant on the Sunday morn,

A creature doom'd to shame! in sorrow born.
She came not home to share our humble meal,-
Her father thinking what his child would feel
From his hard sentence !-Still she came not home.
The night grew dark, and yet she was not come!
The east-wind roar'd, the sea return'd the sound,
And the rain fell as if the world were drown'd:
There were no lights without, and my good man,
To kindness frighten'd, with a groan began
To talk of Ruth, and pray! and then he took
The Bible down, and read the holy book;
For he had learning: and when that was done
We sat in silence-whither could we run,
We said-and then rush'd frighten'd from the door,
For we could bear our own conceit no more :
We call'd on neighbours-there she had not been;
We met some wanderers-ours they had not seen;
We hurried o'er the beach, both north and south,
Then join'd, and wander'd to our haven's mouth:
Where rush'd the falling waters wildly out,
I scarcely heard the good man's fearful shout,
Who saw a something on the billow ride,
And-Heaven have mercy on our sins! he cried,
It is my child!-and to the present hour
So he believes-and spirits have the power!

"And she was gone! the waters wide and deep
Roll'd o'er her body as she lay asleep!
She heard no more the angry waves and wind,
She heard no more the threat'ning of mankind;
Wrapt in dark weeds, the refuse of the storm,
To the hard rock was borne her comely form!

"But O! what storm was in that mind! what strife,

That could compel her to lay down her life!
For she was seen within the sea to wade,
By one at distance, when she first had pray'd;
Then to a rock within the hither shoal,
Softly, and with a fearful step, she stole ;
Then, when she gain'd it, on the top she stood
A moment still-and dropt into the flood!
The man cried loudly, but he cried in vain,-
She heard not then-she never heard again!

Richard afterwards tells how he left the sea and entered the army, and fought and marched in the Peninsula; and how he came home and fell in love with a parson's daughter, and courted and married her; and he tells it all very prettily,-and, moreover, that he is very happy, and very fond of his wife and children. But we must now take the Adelphi out of doors; and let them introduce some of their acquaintances. Among the first to whom we are presented are two sisters, still in the bloom of life, who had been cheated out of a handsome independence by the cunning of a speculating banker, and deserted by their lovers in consequence of this calamity. Their characters are drawn with infinite skill and minuteness, and their whole story told with great feeling and beauty;-but it is difficult to make extracts.

The prudent suitor of the milder and more serious sister, sneaks pitifully away when their fortune changes. The bolder lover of the more elate and gay, seeks to take a baser advantage.

Is shameful,--still more shameful to prevail.
"Then made he that attempt, in which to fail
Then was there lightning in that eye that shed
Its beams upon him,--and his frenzy fled;
Abject and trembling at her feet he laid,
Despis'd and scorn'd by the indignant maid,
Whose spirits in their agitation rose,
Him, and her own weak pity, to oppose:
As liquid silver in the tube mounts high,
Then shakes' and settles as the storm goes by!"--

The effects of this double trial on their different tempers are also very finely de scribed. The gentler Lucy is the most resigned and magnanimous. The more aspi ring Jane suffers far keener anguish and fiercer impatience; and the task of soothing and cheering her devolves on her generous sister. Her fancy, too, is at times a little touched by her afflictions-and she writes wild and melancholy verses. The wanderings of her reason are represented in a very affecting manner;-but we rather choose to quote the following verses, which appear to us to be eminently beautiful, and makes us regret that Mr. Crabbe should have indulged us so seldom with those higher lyrical effu

sions.

"Let me not have this gloomy view,

About my room, around my bed! But morning roses, wet with dew,

To cool my burning brows instead. Like flow'rs that once in Eden grew,

Let them their fragrant spirits shed, And every day the sweets renew,

Till I, a fading flower, am dead!

"I'll have my grave beneath a hill,

Where only Lucy's self shall know; Where runs the pure pellucid rill

Upon its gravelly bed below; There violets on the borders blow, And insects their soft light display, Till as the morning sunbeams glow, The cold phosphoric fires decay.

"There will the lark, the lamb, in sport, In air, on earth, securely play, And Lucy to my grave resort,

As innocent, but not so gay.

"O! take me from a world I hate,

Men cruel, selfish, sen-ual, cold; And, in some pure and blessed state, Let me my sister minds behold: From gross and sordid views refin'd, Our heaven of spotless love to share, For only generous souls design'd,

And not a Man to meet us there."

Vol. i. pp. 212–215. "The Preceptor Husband" is exceedingly well managed-but is rather too facetious for our present mood. The old bachelor, who had been five times on the brink of matrimony, is mixed up of sorrow and mirth; but we cannot make room for any extracts, except the following inimitable description of the first coming on of old age,-though we feel assured, somehow, that this malicious observer has mistaken the date of these ugly symptoms; and brought them into view nine or ten, or, at all events, six or seven years too early.

"Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the six,
When Time began to play his usual tricks!
The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, [white;
Locks of pure brown, display'd th' encroaching
The blood once fervid now to cool began,
And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man:
I rode or walk'd as I was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more;
A moderate pace would now my body heat,
A walk of moderate length distress my feet.
I show'd my stranger-guest those hills sublime,
But said, the view is poor, we need not climb!'
At a friend's mansion I began to dread

The cold neat parlour, and the gay glazed bed;
At home I felt a more decided taste,
And must have all things in my order placed;
I ceas'd to hunt; my horses pleased me less,
My dinner more! I learn'd to play at chess;
I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot;
My morning walks I now could bear to lose,
And bless'd the shower that gave me not to choose:
In fact, I felt a langour stealing on;
The active arm, the agile hand were gone;
Small daily actions into habits grew,
And new dislike to forms and fashions new;
I lov'd my trees in order to dispose,
I number'd peaches, look'd how stocks arose,
Told the same story oft-in short, began to prose."
Vol. i. pp. 260, 261.

part of his vow. Sir Owen, still mad for vengeance, rages at the proposal; and, to confirm his relentless purpose, makes a visit to one, who had better cause, and had formerly expressed equal thirst for revenge. This was one of the higher class of his tenantry-an intelligent, manly, good-humoured farmer, who had married the vicar's pretty niece, and lived in great comfort and comparative elegance, till an idle youth seduced her from his arms, and left him in rage and misery. It is here that the interesting part of the story begins; and few things can be more powerful or striking than the scenes that ensue. inquires whether he had found the objects of his just indignation. He at first evades the question; but at length opens his heart, and tells him all. We can afford to give but a small part of the dialogue.

Sir Owen

"The Maid's Story" is rather long-though it has many passages that must be favourites with Mr. Crabbe's admirers. "Sir Owen Dale" is too long also; but it is one of the best in the collection, and must not be discussed so shortly. Sir Owen, a proud, handsome man, is left a widower at forty-three, and is Soon after jilted by a young lady of twenty; who, after amusing herself by encouraging his assiduities, at last meets his long-expected declaration with a very innocent surprise at finding her familiarity with "such an old friend of her father's" so strangely misconstrued! The knight, of course, is furious; and, to revenge himself, looks out for a handsome young nephew, whom he engages to lay siege to her, and, after having won her affections, to leave her, as he had been left. The lad rashly engages in the adventure; ; but soon finds his pretended passion turning into a real one and entreats his uncle, on whom he is dependent, to release him from the unworthy

"Twice the year came roundYears hateful now-ere I my victims found: But I did find them, in the dungeon's gloom Of a small garret-a precarious home;" The roof, unceil'd in patches, gave the snow Entrance within, and there were heaps below; I pass'd a narrow region dark and cold, The strait of stairs to that infectious hold; And, when I enter'd, misery met my view In every shape she wears, in every hue, And the bleak icy blast across the dungeon flew. There frown'd the ruin'd walls that once were white; There gleam'd the panes that once admitted light; There lay unsavory scraps of wretched food; And there a measure, void of fuel, stood. But who shall, part by part, describe the state Of these, thus follow'd by relentless fate? All, too, in winter, when the icy air Breathed its black venom on the guilty pair.

"And could you know the miseries they endur'd,
The poor, uncertain pittance they procur'd;
When, laid aside the needle and the pen,
Their sickness won the neighbours of their den,
Poor as they are, and they are passing poor,
To lend some aid to those who needed more!
Then, too, an ague with the winter came,
And in this state-that wife I cannot name!
Brought forth a famish'd child of suffering and of
shame!

Where all was desolate, defiled, unclean, [scene,
"This had you known, and traced them to this
A fireless room, and, where a fire had place,
You must have felt a part of the distress,
The blast loud howling down the empty space,
Forgot your wrongs, and made their suffering less!
The sight was loathsome, and the smell was faint;
"In that vile garret-which I cannot paint-
And there that wife,-whom I had lov'd so well,
And thought so happy! was condemn'd to dwell;
The gay, the grateful wife, whom I was glad
To see in dress beyond our station clad,
And to behold among our neighbours, fine,
And now among her neighbours to explore,
More than perhaps became a wife of mine:
And see her poorest of the very poor!
There she reclin'd unmov'd, her bosom bare
To her companion's unimpassion'd stare,
And my wild wonder:-Seat of virtue! chaste
As lovely once! O! how wert thou disgrac'd!

Upon that breast, by sordid rags defil'd,

Lay the wan features of a famish'd child;-
That sin-born babe in utter misery laid,
Too feebly wretched even to cry for aid;
The ragged sheeting, o'er her person drawn,

Serv'd for the dress that hunger placed in pawn.

At the bed's feet the man reclin'd his frame: Their chairs had perish'd to support the flame

That warm'd his agued limbs; and, sad to see,
That shook him fiercely as he gaz'd on me, &c.
866 She had not food, nor aught a mother needs,
Who for another life, and dearer, feeds:
I saw her speechless; on her wither'd breast
The wither'd child extended, but not prest,
Who sought, with moving lip and feeble cry,
Vain instinct! for the fount without supply.

"Sure it was all a grievous, odious scene,
Where all was dismal, melancholy, mean,
Foul with compell'd neglect, unwholesome, and With all its dark intensity of shade;

unclean;

Where the rough wind alone was heard to move,

That arm-that eye-the cold, the sunken cheek-In this, the pause of nature and of love;
Spoke all!-Sir Owen-fiercely miseries speak!'
"And you reliev'd?'

26

That evening all in fond discourse was spent ;
Till the sad lover to his chamber went, [pent!
To think on what had past,-to grieve and to re-
Early he rose, and look'd with many a sigh
On the red light that fill'd the eastern sky;
Oft had he stood before, alert and gay,
To hail the glories of the new-born day :
But now dejected, languid, listless, low,
He saw the wind upon the water blow,
And the cold stream curl'd onward, as the gale
From the pine-hill blew harshly down the dale;
On the right side the youth a wood survey'd,

When now the young are rear'd, and when the old,
Lost to the tie, grow negligent and cold.
Far to the left he saw the huts of men,
Half hid in mist, that hung upon the fen;
Before him swallows, gathering for the sea,
Took their short flights, and twitter'd on the lea ;
And near, the bean-sheaf stood, the harvest done,
And slowly blacken'd in the sickly sun!
All these were sad in nature; or they took
Sadness from him, the likeness of his look,
or And of his mind-he ponder'd for a while,
Then met his Fanny with a borrow'd smile."
Vol. ii. pp. 84, 85.

"If hell's seducing crew
Had seen that sight, they must have pitied too.'
"Revenge was thine-thou hadst the power-the
right;
To give it up was Heav'n's own act to slight.'
"Tell me not, Sir, of rights, and wrongs,
powers!
I felt it written-Vengeance is not ours!'—
"Then did you freely from your soul forgive?'-

"Sure as I hope before my Judge to live,
Sure as I trust his mercy to receive,
Sure as his word I honour and believe,
Sure as the Saviour died upon the tree
For all who sin-for that dear wretch, and me-
Whom, never more on earth, will I forsake-or see!'

"Sir Owen softly to his bed adjourn'd!
Sir Owen quickly to his home return'd;
And all the way he meditating dwelt
On what this man in his affliction felt;
How he, resenting first, forbore, forgave;
His passion's lord, and not his anger's slave."
Vol. ii. pp. 36-46.

"In that weak moment, when disdain and pride,
And fear and fondness, drew the man aside,
In that weak moment- Wilt thou,' he began,
Be mine?' and joy o'er all her features ran;
'I will!' she softly whisper'd; but the roar
Of cannon would not strike his spirit more!
Ev'n as his lips the lawless contract seal'd
He felt that conscience lost her seven-fold shield,
And honour fled; but still he spoke of love;
And all was joy in the consenting dove!

The moral autumn is quite as gloomy, and far more hopeless.

"The Natural Death of Love" is perhaps the best written of all the pieces before us. It consists of a very spirited dialogue between a married pair, upon the causes of the differ ence between the days of marriage and those of courtship-in which the errors and faults of both parties, and the petulance, impatience, and provoking acuteness of the lady, with the more reasonable and reflecting, but somewhat insulting manner of the gentleman, are all exhibited to the life; and with more uniform delicacy and finesse than is usual with the

author.

We always quote too much of Mr. Crabbe: -perhaps because the pattern of his arabesque is so large, that there is no getting a fair specimen of it without taking in a good space. But we must take warning this time, and forbear or at least pick out but a few little morsels as we pass hastily along. One of the best managed of all the tales is that entitled "Delay has Danger;"--which contains a very full, true, and particular account of the way in which a weakish, but well meaning young man, engaged on his own suit to a very amiable girl, may be seduced, during her unlucky absence, to entangle himself with a far inferior person, whose chief seduction is hergency and youthful beauty, and gives him her hand. There is something rather disgusting, apparent humility and devotion to him. we think, in this fiction-and certainly the worthy lady could not have taken no way so likely to save the ghost's credit, as by entering into such a marriage-and she confessed as much, it seems, on her deathbed.

"Lady Barbara, or the Ghost," is a long story, and not very pleasing. A fair widow had been warned, or supposed she had been warned, by the ghost of a beloved brother, that she would be miserable if she contracted a second marriage-and then, some fifteen years after, she is courted by the son of a reverend priest, to whose house she had reof his childhood, she had lavished the cares tired-and upon whom, during all the years of a mother. She long resists his unnatural passion; but is at length subdued by his ur

We cannot give any part of the long and finely converging details by which the catastrophe is brought about: But we are tempted to venture on the catastrophe itself, for the sake chiefly of the right English, melancholy, autumnal landscape, with which it con cludes:

"The Widow," with her three husbands, is not quite so lively as the wife of Bath with her five-but it is a very amusing, as well as a very instructive legend; and exhibits a rich variety of those striking intellectual portraits which mark the hand of our poetical Rembrandt. The serene close of her eventful life is highly exemplary. After carefully col lecting all her dowers and jointures

"The widow'd lady to her cot retir'd:
And there she lives, delighted and admir'd!

KEATS' POEMS.

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466

'We part no more, dear Richard! Thou wilt

need

Thy brother's help to teach thy boys to read;
And I should love to hear Matilda's psalm,
To keep my spirit in a morning calm,
And feel the soft devotion that prepares
The soul to rise above its earthly cares;
Then thou and I, an independent two,
May have our parties, and defend them too;
Thy liberal notions, and my loyal fears,
Will give us subjects for our future years;
We will for truth alone contend and read,
And our good Jaques shall o'ersee our creed.'"
Vol. ii. pp. 348, 349.
And then, after leading him up to his new
purchase, he adds eagerly—

866 Alight, my friend, and come, I do beseech thee, to that proper home!

We had never happened to see either of these volumes till very lately-and have been exceedingly struck with the genius they display, and the spirit of poetry which breathes through all their extravagance. That imitation of our old writers, and especially of our older dramatists, to which we cannot help flattering ourselves that we have somewhat contributed, has brought on, as it were, a second spring in our poetry;-and few of its blossoms are either more profuse of sweetness, or richer in promise, than this which is now before us. Mr. Keats, we understand, is still a very young man ; and his whole works,

413

(August, 1820.)

1. Endymion: a Poetic Romance. By JOHN KEATS. 8vo. pp. 207. London: 1818.

2. Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and other Poems. By JOHN KEATS, author of

66

Endymion." 12mo. pp. 200. London: 1820.*

I still think that a poet of great power and promise was lost to us by the premature death of Keats, in the twenty-fifth year of his age; and regret that I did not go more largely into the exposition of his merits, in the slight notice of them, which I now venture to reprint. But though I can not, with propriety, or without departing from the principle which must govern this republication, now supply this omission, I hope to be forgiven for having added a page or two to the citations, by which my opinion of those merits was then illustrated, and is again left to the judgment of the reader.

Here, on this lawn, thy boys and girls shall run, And play their gambols, when their tasks are done; There, from that window, shall their mother view The happy tribe, and smile at all they do; While thou, more gravely, hiding thy delight, Shalt cry, "O! childish!" and enjoy the sight!'" Vol. ii. p. 352. We shall be abused by our political and fastidious readers for the length of this article. But we cannot repent of it. It will give as much pleasure, we believe, and do as much good, as many of the articles that are meant for their gratification; and, if it appear absurd to quote so largely from a popular and accessible work, it should be remembered, that no work of this magnitude passes into circulation with half the rapidity of our Journal-and that Mr. Crabbe is so unequal a writer, and at times so unattractive, as to require, more than any other of his degree, some explanation of his system, and some specimens of his powers, from those experienced and intrepid readers whose business it is to pioneer for the lazier sort, and to give some account of what they are to meet with on their journey. To be sure, all this is less necessary now than it was on Mr. Crabbe's first re-appearance nine or ten years ago; and though it may not be altogether without its use even at present, it may be as well to confess, that we have rather consulted our own gratification than our readers' improvement, in what we have now said of him; and hope they will forgive

us.

indeed, bear evidence enough of the fact. They are full of extravagance and irregu larity, rash attempts at originality, interminable wanderings, and excessive obscurity. They manifestly require, therefore, all the indulgence that can be claimed for a first attempt :-But we think it no less plain that they deserve it: For they are flushed all over with the rich lights of fancy; and so coloured and bestrewn with the flowers of poetry, that even while perplexed and bewildered in their labyrinths, it is impossible to resist the intoxication of their sweetness, or to shut our hearts to the enchantments they so lavishly present. The models upon which he has formed himself, in the Endymion, the earliest and by much the most considerable of his poems, are obviously The Faithful Shepherdess of Fletcher, and the Sad Shepherd of Ben Jonson;the exquisite metres and inspired diction of which he has copied with great boldness and fidelity-and, like his great originals, has also contrived to impart to the whole piece that true rural and poetical air-which breathes only in them, and in Theocritus-which is at

466

That warm'd his agued limbs; and, sad to see,
That shook him fiercely as he gaz'd on me, &c.
She had not food, nor aught a mother needs,
Who for another life, and dearer, feeds:
I saw her speechless; on her wither'd breast
The wither'd child extended, but not prest,
Who sought, with moving lip and feeble cry,
Vain instinct for the fount without supply.

"That evening all in fond discourse was spent ;
Till the sad lover to his chamber went, [pent!
To think on what had past,-to grieve and to re-
Early he rose, and look'd with many a sigh
On the red light that fill'd the eastern sky;
Oft had he stood before, alert and gay,
To hail the glories of the new-born day :
But now dejected, languid, listless, low,
He saw the wind upon the water blow,
And the cold stream curl'd onward, as the gale
From the pine-hill blew harshly down the dale;
with all its dark intensity of shade;
On the right side the youth a wood survey'd,
In this, the pause of nature and of love;
Where the rough wind alone was heard to move,
When now the young are rear'd, and when the old,
Lost to the tie, grow negligent and cold.
Far to the left he saw the huts of men,
Half hid in mist, that hung upon the fen;
Before him swallows, gathering for the sea,
And near, the bean-sheaf stood, the harvest done,
Took their short flights, and twitter'd on the lea;
And slowly blacken'd in the sickly sun!
All these were sad in nature; or they took
Sadness from him, the likeness of his look,

"Tell me not, Sir, of rights, and wrongs, or And of his mind-he ponder'd for a while,
powers!

Then met his Fanny with a borrow'd smile."
Vol. ii. pp. 84, 85.

"Sure it was all a grievous, odious scene,
Where all was dismal, melancholy, mean,
Foul with compell'd neglect, unwholesome, and

unclean;

That arm-that eye-the cold, the sunken cheek-
Spoke all!-Sir Owen-fiercely miseries speak!'
'And you reliev'd?'

666

"If hell's seducing crew Had seen that sight, they must have pitied too.'

666

Revenge was thine-thou hadst the power-the right; To give it up was Heav'n's own act to slight.'

I felt it written-Vengeance is not ours!'

"Then did you freely from your soul forgive?'—

"Sure as I hope before my Judge to live,
Sure as I trust his mercy to receive,
Sure as his word I honour and believe,
Sure as the Saviour died upon the tree
For all who sin-for that dear wretch, and me-
Whom, never more on earth, will I forsake or see!'

"Sir Owen softly to his bed adjourn'd!
Sir Owen quickly to his home return'd;
And all the way he meditating dwelt
On what this man in his affliction felt;
How he, resenting first, forbore, forgave;
His passion's lord, and not his anger's slave."
Vol. ii. pp. 36-46.

The moral autumn is quite as gloomy, and far more hopeless.

"The Natural Death of Love" is perhaps the best written of all the pieces before us. It consists of a very spirited dialogue between a married pair, upon the causes of the difference between the days of marriage and those of courtship-in which the errors and faults of both parties, and the petulance, impatience, and provoking acuteness of the lady, with the more reasonable and reflecting, but somewhat insulting manner of the gentleman, are all exhibited to the life; and with more uniform delicacy and finesse than is usual with the

author.

We always quote too much of Mr. Crabbe: -perhaps because the pattern of his arabesque is so large, that there is no getting a fair specimen of it without taking in a good space. But we must take warning this time, and forbear or at least pick out but a few little morsels as we pass hastily along. One of the best managed of all the tales is that entitled "Delay has Danger ;"--which contains a very full, true, and particular account of the way in which a weakish, but well meaning young man, engaged on his own suit to a very amiable girl, may be seduced, during her unlucky absence, to entangle himself with a far inferior person, whose chief seduction is her apparent humility and devotion to him.

"Lady Barbara, or the Ghost," is a long story, and not very pleasing. A fair widow had been warned, or supposed she had been warned, by the ghost of a beloved brother, that she would be miserable if she contracted a second marriage-and then, some fifteen years after, she is courted by the son of a reverend priest, to whose house she had retired-and upon whom, during all the years of his childhood, she had lavished the cares of a mother. She long resists his unnatural passion; but is at length subdued by his urgency and youthful beauty, and gives him her hand. There is something rather disgusting, we think, in this fiction-and certainly the

We cannot give any part of the long and finely converging details by which the catas-worthy lady could not have taken no way so trophe is brought about: But we are tempted likely to save the ghost's credit, as by enterto venture on the catastrophe itself, for the ing into such a marriage-and she confessed sake chiefly of the right English, melancholy, as much, it seems, on her deathbed. autumnal landscape, with which it con cludes:

"The Widow," with her three husbands, is not quite so lively as the wife of Bath with her five-but it is a very amusing, as well as a very instructive legend; and exhibits a rich variety of those striking intellectual portraits which mark the hand of our poetical Rembrandt. The serene close of her eventful life is highly exemplary. After carefully col lecting all her dowers and jointures

"In that weak moment, when disdain and pride,
And fear and fondness, drew the man aside,
In that weak moment- Wilt thou,' he began,
Be mine?' and joy o'er all her features ran;
'I will!' she softly whisper'd; but the roar
Of cannon would not strike his spirit more!
Ev'n as his lips the lawless contract seal'd
He felt that conscience lost her seven-fold shield,
And honour fled; but still he spoke of love;
And all was joy in the consenting dove!

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