Page:Zóphiël; or, The Bride of Seven.djvu/21

Yet anger, or revenge, envy or hate,
The damsel knew not: when her bosom burned
And injury darkened the decrees of fate,
She had more piteous sighed to see that pain returned.

Or if, perchance, though formed most just and pure,
Amid their virtue's wild luxuriance hid,
Such germs, all mortal bosoms must immure
Which sometimes show their poisonous heads, unbid,—

If, haply such the fair Judean finds,
Self knowledge wept the abasing truth to know;
And innate Pride, that queen of noble minds,
Crushed them indignant ere a bud could grow.

And such, even now, in earliest youth are seen;
But would they live, with armour more deform
Their breasts made soft by too much love must screen:—
"The bird that sweetest sings can least endure the
storm."

And yet, despite of all, the starting tear,
The melting tone, the blood suffusive, proved,
The soul that in them spoke, could spurn at fear
Of death or danger; and had those she loved