"My yielding spirit bows the knee; My will profoundly bends to thee: But paltry vanities resign'd, Wealth, gauds, and honours left behind, I only wanted, thought to quit This strange, wild world, and make me fit For one of better promise--given To such as think not this their heaven! Nay, almost in my breast arose A hope I scarcely dare disclose; A hope that life, from tumult free,-- A life so harmless and so pure, A calm so shelter'd, so secure, At length might have a charm for thee! That supplications, patient, strong, Might not remain unanswer'd long! And all temptations from thee cast, The altar prove thy home at last!" The artless Isabel prevails-- That hard, unbending spirit fails! Not many words her lips had past, Ere round her his fond arms were cast; But, while his vengeful conscience prais'd, He chid; and, frowning, would have rais'd Till her resistance and her tears, The vehemence of youthful grief, Her paleness, his paternal fears, Compell'd him to afford relief; And forc'd the agonizing cry-- That he could never her deny! Of what ambition sought, beguil'd, His crimes thus fruitless! and his child, The beautiful, the rich and young-- Now, in his most triumphant hours! The darling he had nurs'd in flowers! His pride, the prais'd of every tongue! So gentle as she was!--the rein Of influence holding, to restrain His harsher power, without pretence, In graceful, gay beneficence-- An angel deem'd, her only care To comfort and to please! Whose smiling, whose unconscious air, Bespoke a heart at ease-- By her--on whom sweet hopes were built, His cup when fill'd thus rashly spilt! The treasures he had heap'd in vain, Thrown thankless on his hands again! While--father to this being blest, He saw a dagger pierce her breast, In knowledge of his former guilt! And of his projects thus bereft, What had the wretched parent left? Oh! from the wreck of all, he bore A richer, nobler freight ashore! And filial love could well dispense On earth a dearer recompense, If he its real worth had known, Than full success had made his own. So ardent and so kind of late, Is Marie careless of their fate, That, wrapt in this demeanour cold, Her spirits some enchantments hold? That thus her countenance is clos'd, Where high and lovely thoughts repos'd! Quench'd the pure light that us'd to fly To the smooth cheek and lucid eye! And fled the harmonizing cloud Which could that light benignly shroud, Soothing its radiance to our view, And melting each opposing hue, Till deepening tints and blendings meet Made contrast' self serene and sweet.