And strove in vain to stop the coming sigh; Lost in himself, he wanders to and fro, His eyes cast upward now—now down below, While Cynthia still, is all her splendor deck’d, Smiles on the bloody scene by clouds uncheck’d. He hears a sound, and, aided by her beams, Moves on his way—then stops, and thinks he dreams; Listens again, and hears a female’s words: “Oh, men! more cruel than your shining swords, Could ye not spare my father’s hoary age? Would not my three brave brothers glut your rage? Would not a mother, by keen famine slain? Return, my father! back to life again, Return to share again thy daughter’s kiss! Or bear me with you to yon scenes of bliss, Where war and blood ne’er fright the peaceful shore, And Jews or Romans trouble us no more.” Great Titus melts, his flashing eyes o’erflow, He weeps with pity—pity for a foe. “Fair maid (said he) why spring those flowing tears? Repose your grief with me, drive hence your fears, Suppress those sighs, your parent yet may live, He shall not fall for aught that I can give.” The dying father at these words awoke, And stares with vacancy on him who spoke, Then mournful lisps, “Oh, man! if man thou art, Attend my last poor wish e’er I depart, And, if thou hop’st for peace beyond the grave, Preserve an orphan, and my daughter save; Oh! cheer my Jezra, pity her despair, With you I leave her, take her to your care: I was your deadly enemy ’tis true, For thou a Roman art, and I a Jew. But ah! that starting tear now speaks thee friend, Then promise thou my Jezra to defend; Thou swearest by thy sword!—Enough, enough;— Oh! may thy path through life be never rough. Here, take this casket, all I now have left, For I have been of wealth and house bereft; Give Jezra part, and then keep thou the rest, Protect and guard her—so shalt thou be blest; Farewell! farewell! the tide of life ebbs fast, Soon will my dreary sorrows all be past, Soon shall I meet my sons and martyr’d wife, And feel no more the woes of war and strife. I can no more—my wand’ring sight grows dark, Jezra, adieu! death sinks my shatter’d bark, My wound bursts forth, my spirit mounts on high, To gain a happy home—I sink, I die!” A dreadful pause, all nature seems to sleep, The moon retires involv’d in clouds to sleep; The scene around looks naked and forlorn, And black’ning clouds obscure the welcome morn; The maid in anguish wrings her lily hands, Then flings her fragile form upon the sands. Titus, transfix’d with love and fear, still kneels, Hears ev’ry sob, and all her sorrow feels; Raises the lovely burden in his arms, Wipes off the tear, and gazes on her charms: Then checks his sighs, which strive in vain for vent, And bears the senseless maiden to his tent.