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IX. 



Days, weeks, months pass. Time came with slow relief; 

 But still at length it came. No more her grief 

 Disturbs her brain : she knows " that groan was his ! " 

 And fully feels herself the wretch she is. 

 She rises : towards the grotto's mouth she goes, 

 Nor dares the fiend her wandering steps oppose. 

 She seeks the spot on which Rosalvo fell, 

 On which he died ! She knows that spot too well ! 

 But, lo ! no corse was there ! All smooth and green 

 A velvet turf o'erstrewn with flowers was seen, 

 And fenced with roses. " Oh ! whose pious care 

 Hath deck'd this grave? Hear, gracious Heaven, his 

 prayer, 



When most he needs ! " While thus in doubt she stands, 

 She marks the fiend's approach. His ebon hands 

 Sustain'd a gourd of flowers of various hue ; 

 He pour'd them, kiss'd the turf, and straight withdrew 



Hither each morn his blooming gifts he bore, 

 Smooth'd the green sod, and strew'd it o'er and o'er. 

 Hither, each morn, came Irza ; on those flowers 

 She wept, she pray'd, she sang away her hours. 

 So mourns the nightingale on poplar spray *, 

 Her callow brood by shepherds borne away, 

 Weeps all the night, and from her green retreat 

 Fills the wide groves with warblings sad as sweet. 



X. 



And still fresh woes succeed. She feels again 

 Mysterious pangs, nor doubts her cause of pain. 

 Too sure, while lost in maniac state she lay, 

 Her sense, her wits, her feeling all away, 

 The fiend once more had seized the unguarded hour 

 To force her weakness, and abuse his ower. 



* " Qualis populea," &c. — Virgil. 



