Still dear, still lov'd, I learnt to sin of thee, Learn, thou seducer, penitence from me! Oh! that my soul this last pure joy may know, Sometimes to soothe the dreadful hour of woe: HENRY! by all the love my life has shown, By all the sinful raptures we have known, By all the parting pangs that rend my breast, Hear, my lov'd lord, and grant my last request; And, when the last tremendous hour shall come, When all my woes are buried in the tomb, Then grant the only boon this wretch shall crave-- Drop the sad tear to dew my humble grave; Pause o'er the turf in fullness bent of woe, And think who lies so cold and pale below! Think from the grave she speaks the last decree, "What I am now--soon, HENRY, thou must be!" Then be this voice of wonted power possest, To melt thy heart, and triumph in thy breast: So should my prayers with just success be crown'd, Should HENRY learn remorse from ROSAMUND; Then shall thy sorrow and repentance prove, That even death was weak to end our love. BION. * * * * * _THE RACE OF ODIN._ Loud was the hostile clang of arms, And hoarse the hollow sound, When POMPEY scatter'd wild alarms The ravag'd East around, The crimson deluge dreadful dy'd the ground: An iron forest of destructive spears Rear'd their stern stems, where late The bending harvest wav'd its rustling ears: Rome, through the swarming gate, Pour'd her ambitious hosts to slaughter forth: Such was the will of fate! From the cold regions of the North, At length, on raven wings, shall vengeance come, And justice pour the urn of bitterness on Rome.