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And Julia's1 beauty was the court's proud theme!
A beauty, which 'rapt poesy would laud,
Which many a far-fam'd painter, too, had strove
In vain to rival by his mimic art;
So sculpture, with her thousand antique moulds,
A form so faultless, or so fine a face,
Yet e'en this faultless form this angel mien,
Yet more enamour'd of the mighty wealth,
Which rumour gave her,-forth came Frankenstein 2,
The young, the bold, the confident, the vain;
Who woo'd and won, and sought at length to bring
The blushing rose to his domestic bower ;
But he was hollow, heartless, and untrue,
Soon left the flower to lose its vernal bloom,
1 The sister of Adelaide.
2 For many romantic and highly interesting tales connected with the Rhine, the reader is referred to a work entitled "Traditions populaires du Rhin." (Heidelberg.)
To pine and die, torn from the parent stalk !—
How sink the just! Why triumph's treachery?
1 The brother of Adelaide.
Heart-stricken, sank, and fell a lifeless clod
Snatch me a plume from out the raven's wing,
As on the scene of horror she did gaze,
The while fell anguish shook her trembling frame, And her rack'd bosom heav'd that bursting sigh. Which issues only from a breaking heart.
In shatter'd garb, the ghost of what she was,
Her long dark hair, the sport of every
The hapless maiden may be frequent seen,
What time the glooms of eve come deepening on,
As the storm-shaken, kindred, frozen leaves,
She, shivering, sighs, and hastening past betrays,
For others' ills she said there was a balm,
Some sweet oblivious essence, which the hand
AND must, then, that sweet blooming beautiful flower, Now the pride and the boast of our grove,
So soon be transferred to some far distant bower,
Or give grace to some stranger alcove?
Just op'd from the bud, scarce expanded the leaves,
Not a myrtle so jealous, but owns and believes,
What babarous hand then shall insolent dare,
E'er to tear this
1 An appellation given to a young lady by her intimate friends.
To bear it so far from so genial an air,
Or so rudely to risk a decay?
Let others go rove from the haunts where they grew, They are rough, and require not the shade;
But stay, lovely flower, where you first sipp'd the dew, And give life and delight to the glade!
With a fostering hand from each ill-boding blight,
Shall I guard thy soft elegant form :
Avert the bleak blast, the chill damps of the night,
And will shelter thee safe from the storm.
Now my eyes sure beguile me, or else I behold,