I first to Selred's court withdrew, A single wish thy pow'r maintain'd, A single wish thy son regain'd. I left the maid whose matchless charms, Each rooted prejudice disarms, Who rul'd my heart with sovereign sway, And taught a Mercian to obey Laws that East-Saxons can impart, When wit and beauty string the dart; Left her when hope my doubts beguil'd, And on our love her father smil'd. Oft have I tried to win thine ear, The fond, romantic tale to hear, But when I found a lonely hour, My coward soul has lost the pow'r; As on my lips the accents hung, Thy hate to Selred check'd my tongue. Yet flattering hopes my passion fed, And from thy court again I fled; I thought when you my fair beheld, And knew how greatly she excell'd, In every charm, each art refin'd, And virtue of the female mind, Thy judgment would approve my choice, And bless it with a cheerful voice. And ah! though fortune did combine With love, in making Ela mine, I cannot from a grief refrain, Remembering that I gave thee pain. Yet if thy Cen'lin e'er could please, If e'er my cares could give thee ease, Let mild affection now arise, And beam forgiveness from thine eyes! No more thy son shall make thee know A pain, or give thee cause of woe. No nights the Mercians have to fear, For all I love is center'd here," He spoke, and o'er his father's soul, A stream of healing comfort stole; He rose, with slow, majestic grace, Tears of delight adorn'd his face, His pious heart with rapture glow'd, And joy a second youth bestow'd. "To meet thee thus, my son," he cried, "This peerless maiden for your bride, Bids each distressing thought depart, And joy again possess my heart. Fair princess, thine the happy fate, To heal the wounds of mutual hate; No longer shall this bosom know, An Eastern-Saxon as my foe; And she, who bids that passion rest, Doubt not, shall be supremely blest; The part is holy and benign, Befitting such a form as thine. This day, far dearer than before, Kind heav'n does twice my son restore, For by those speaking looks I see, Another valued child in thee." As then he raised them to his breast, Around the joyful Mercians prest, And made their shouts of triumph rise, To the fair concave of the skies. OCTOBER 1795. * * * * * [Footnote 12: King of the East-Saxons.] RHAPSODY.