470 
Armine and Elvira . 
Here Raymond, long in arms renown’d. 
From scenes of war would oft repair ; 
His bed an only daughter crown’d, 
And smil’d away a father’s care. 
By nature’s happiest pencil drawn, 
She wore the vernal morning’s ray : 
The vernal morning’s blushing dawn. 
Breaks not so beauteous into day. 
Her breast, impatient of controul, 
Scorn’d in its silken chains to lie. 
And the soft language of the soul 
Flow’d from her never-silent eye. 
The bloom that open’d on her face, 
W ell seem’d an emblem of her mind. 
Where snowy innocence we trace, 
With blushing modesty combin’d. 
To these resistless grace impart. 
That look of sweetness, form’d to please. 
That elegance devoid of art, 
That dignity that’s lost in ease. 
What youth so cold could view unmov’d, 
The maid, that ev’ry beauty shar’d ? 
Her Armine saw ; he saw, he lov’d. 
He lov’d — alas ! and he despair’d ! 
Unhappy youth l he sunk opprest, 
For much he labour’d to conceal 
That gentlest passion of the breast, 
Which all can feign, but few can feeh 
Ingenuous fears suppress’d the flame, 
Yet still he own’d its hidden power; 
With transport dwelling on her name. 
He sooth’d the solitary hour. 
4< How long,” he cry’d, “ must I conceal 
What yet my heart could wish were known ? 
a How long the truest passion feel, 
“ And yet that passion fear to own ? 
u Ah ! might I breathe my humble vow ! 
“ Might she too deign to lend an ear ! 
