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His favours snares, his presents only given 

 To shake her faith, and steal her soul from heaven. 

 Still then her loathing heart remain'd the same, 

 Joy'd when he went, and shudder'd when he came; 

 And when to share his fruits by hunger press'd, 

 Ever she bless'd them first, and cross'd her breast. 



VII. 



Days creep — months roll — no change ! no hope ! and oh ! 

 Rosalvo lost, what hope can life bestow? 

 Death, only death, she feels, can end her woes ; 

 Nor doubts death soon will bring that wish'd-for close; 

 For now her frame, her mind, confess disease ; 

 Painful and faint she moves ; her tottering knees 

 Scarce bear her weight ; and oft, by humour moved, 

 Her sickening soul now loathes what late it loved. 

 It comes ! the moment comes ! Her frame is rent 

 By sharper pangs ; her nerves, too strongly bent, 

 Seem on the point to break ; her forehead burns ; 

 Her curdling blood is fire, is ice by turns ; 

 Her heart-strings crack ! — " This hour is sure her last ! * 

 Fainting she sinks, and hopes " that hour is pass'd !" 



Wake, Irza, wake to grief most strange and deep ! 

 Still must thou live, and only live to weep ! 

 Oh, lift thine aching head, thy languid eyes, 

 And mark what hideous stranger near thee lies. 

 " Guard me, all blessed saints !" — A monster child 

 Press'd her green couch ; and, as it grimly smiled, 

 Its shaggy limbs, and eyes of sable fire, 

 Betray'd the crime, and claim'd its hellish sire ! 



" Lost ! lost ! My soul is lost !" the affrighted maid, 

 (Ah, now a maid no more !) distracted, said, 

 And wrung her hands. Those words she scarce could say ; 

 Yet would have pray'd, but fear'd 't was sin to pray ! 

 That only veil which ne'er admits a stain, 

 The veil of ignorance, was rent in twain : 



