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enchained his kind regard, I should not thus have mingled with the noble crowd, and Angeline had ne'er beheld me.

-How my heart bleeds for her whom I can never love : how my soul pants for her whom I can never possess.-Mary despises Chatelar, who dies for her, and Chatelar can only pity Angeline, who feels for him the fires of warm affection. Why was I ever called upon to touch the lute in presence of the maid ? why did the generous Condé speak in my commendation? I little thought my love-sick tales, which were wafted to the idol of my soul, would find sanctuary in the bosom of another.—Ah! little did I imagine the praises of my prince would win the heart of Angeline. I will begone; it must be so : I cannot live to witness another's pangs, and feed a hopeless passion by my presence.--Yes, sweet maid, you must, like Chatelar, for ever bid adieu to him you love! It is resolved: the coming day makes noble Condé the depository of my tale of anguish, and of my deternrined flight from Gallia, and from Angeline--for ever!

FRAGMENT XVIII.

The die is cast: the Prince has this day heard my tale of anguish; he pities me, and with counsels the most strenuous would urge me to forget my love, and bless the tender Angeline. But what is reason, and the sage advice of friend. ship, to the soul that burns with passion ?-I ne'er can be the lovely Angeline's ; nor would I so disgrace her bosom's fire, as to offer up a heart which never can requite the flame that now devours her own.

We must be wretched, and numbered with the sacrifices of purest affection. -It is decreed in heaven, and mortals must learn to submit. I have bad adieu to the Prince Condé, and the brave D'Andelot; and ere the matin bird has told to the still breeze the hour of returning light, I must to horse, and on the wings of expedition hie me hence unto the seagirt shore, and once again commit myself unto the briny deep.-Fate now drives me to the

land of love; my reason cannot resist the impulse which impels my soul to seek forgiveness of the enchanting Mary, and once more fix my eyes upon her heavenly charms ! Poor Angeline ! how the keen pang of sorrow now afflicts my heart; ;- yes,

I can feel for all thy woes, though I myself am languishing the object of despair. I know the bitterness of persecuted love, the pangs of absence, and the fell curse of hopeless meditation.

Condé hath promised to administer the comfort of a friend ; to tell in part the secret of my prior affection, and sooth if possible the maiden's soul, so that she yield not to such anguish as rends the heart of Chatelar. The hidden destinies have surely poured on me their sum of malice, and not a pang remains to harrow up my bosom.--I suffer, and am the source of suffering; yes, I live in torments, and am myself the inflictor of the very agonies I feel. -Can this be just, dread Monarch of the heavenly choir ? What sin hath Chatelar committed, that thus thy bitter wrath should wither up his soul ? What crime hath tainted gentle Angeline, that she should share alike the struggle of conflicting passions ?-Oh ! almighty love, if thou art the bestower of all sweets, thou art equally the source of bitterness accursed, and I stand forth the wretched monument of thy consuming wrath!

-Still art thou present to my fancy, Angeline; I will commiserate thy woes, and as my pen retraces all thy sorrows, mingle with the ebon stream the tear of sympathy, the parting drop of him who can do all but give thee love for love.

TO THE FADING ROSE OF LOVE.

Poor love-lorn maid, thy bleeding heart
Doth all my withering pangs impart,

As hopeless as thyself I pine ;
I weep the queen of bliss, whilst thou
Send'st forth to love the fervent vow

For him who never can be thine.

Thy tears with tears will I requite,
With thee I'll sigh the tedious night,

And praise my love with falt'ring breath;
With thee I'll hope, with thee despair,
With thee the wrath of heav'n I'll dare,

By cursing life and courting death.

And yet, though hopeless be thy love,
One pang like mine thou can'st not prove-

I'm more accursed far than thee;
For him thou lov'st will weep thy duom,
But love's bright empress on the tomb
Will never shed one tear for me.

The gem of pity is thy lot,
Whilst I must wither quite forgot

By her who reigns my bosom's queen ;
Blighted by hope, and left forlorn,
My heart is doom'd to wear the thorn,

And mourn love's rose-poor Angeline !

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