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3. 



Now o'er thy head, my virgin love, 



Rolls Ocean's wave ; 

 But fond regret, in myrtle grove, 



Hath dug thy grave. 

 Sweet flowers, around her vacant urn 



Your wreaths I '11 twine, 

 And pray such flowers, ere Spring's return, 



May garland mine ! 



" He ! he ! " — That love-lorn dirge — that heavenly 

 tongue — 



That air, she taught him; 't was Rosalvo sung ! 

 Rosalvo, whom the waves, which wreck'd their bark, 

 Had borne, like her, for purpose sad and dark, 

 To that strange isle ; though far remote the beach 

 From Irza's grot, which Fate ordain'd him reach ; 

 But now at length his curious search explores 

 These rude and slippery crags and distant shores ; 

 And while he treads his dangerous path, the strains 



Which Irza taught him soothe her lover's pains. 



She hears his steps, and hears them soon more near ; 



And loud she cries — " Rosalvo ! Hear ! oh, hear ! 



'Tis Irza calls !" and now more quick, more nigh, 



Down the steep rock she hears those footsteps fly. 



Again she calls. He comes ! Fie searches round ; 



He seeks the gate, and soon the gate is found. 



Alas ! 't is found in vain ! the marble guard 



Seem'd rooted as the rock, whose mouth it barr'd. 



Yet still, with labouring nerves, to move the stone 



He struggles. Now he stops ; and, hark ! A groan ! 



But one; then all was hush'd ! A sickening chill 



Seized Irza's heart, and seem'd her veins to thrill. 



Fain had she call'd her youthful bridegroom's name ; 



Her tongue Fear's numbing fingers seem'd to lame. 



T 4 



