Not so Placidus, destitute of joys, He seeks his tent, and shuns their lively noise; There sits him down, while on his mournful face The love-lorn pearly shower falls apace. Oft on his lost Paulina’s name he calls, Oft casts his eyes around the strengthen’d walls, Forebodings pleasing on his spirits flock, He longs for death, nor fears the dreadful shock: “But oh! (he cries) were fair Paulina here, And with her love my dying hour would cheer, I then resign’d should close my eyes to rest, Shed my last fleeting breath upon her breast; For her blest safety all the gods implore, And haste contented to the dismal shore. In vain my wish!—My faithful slave, draw nigh, Let me have music—wherefore dost thou sigh; You only know my grief, my gallant boy, And thy soft tales alone e’er yield me joy; For when I look, or hear thy soft’ning strains, My heart rebounds, and all my dreary pains Retire in peace, and, like their subject mute, Own the sweet magic of thy quiv’ring lute. Strike—strike, my boy—attune thy keys anew, Chaunt some fond lay of parted lovers true, Let thy sweet music waft my soul above, And with thy words remind me of my love.” The lovely slave with cheerfulness obeys, Sweeps o’er the strings, now loud—now softly plays; Responsive through his heart the murmurs creep, His grief is gone—and calmness lulls to sleep. The slave with care his weighty helm removes, And though a willing slave, a friend he proves; O’er his succumbent frame he gentry bends, Echos each sigh his tortur’d breast that rends, Thinks on each woe by which his heart is torn, And watches near him till the waking morn.