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In spite of virtue, cloisters, horror, youth, 



She knows, and feels, and shudders at the truth. 



That night accursed ! — In death-like swoon she slept — 



Then near her couch if that dark demon crept — 



Oh ! where was then her guardian angel's aid ? 



And would not heavenly Mary save her maid? 



Deprived of sense — betray'd by place and time — 



Then was she doom'd to share the unconscious crime ? 



Debased, deflower'd, and stamp'd a wretch for life, 



A monster's mother, and a demon's wife? 



Oh ! at that thought her soul what passions tear ! 

 How then she beats her breast, how rends her hair, 

 And bids, with golden ringlets scatter'd round, 

 Stream all the air, and glitter all the ground ! 

 Sighs, sobs, and shrieks the place of words supply ; 

 And still she mourns to live, and prays to die, 

 Till heart denies to groan, and eyes to flow ; 

 Then, on her couch of rushes sinking low, 

 Languid and lost she lies, in silent, senseless woe. 



What lifts her burning head ? why opes her eye? 

 What makes her blood run back ? A faint? shrill cry ! 

 Too well, alas ! that cry was understood : 

 The monster pined for want, and claim'd its food. 

 Then in her heart what rival passions strove ! 

 How shrinks disgust, how yearns maternal love ! 

 Now to its life her feelings she prefers ; 

 Now Nature wakes, and makes her own — "'T is hers ! " 

 Loathing its sight, she melts to hear its cries, 

 And, while she yields the breast, averts her eyes. 



Not so the demon-sire : the child he raised, 

 He kiss'd it — danced it — nursed it — knelt, and gazed, 

 Till joyful tears gush'd forth, and dimm'd his sight : 

 Scarce Irza's self was view'd with more delight. 

 He held it tow'rds her — horror seem'd to thrill 

 Her frame. He sigh'd, and clasp'd it closer still. 

 Once, and but once, his features wrath express'd : 

 He saw her shudder, as it drain'd her breast; 



T 3 



