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To a Lady weeping.

Weep, daughter of a royal line,

A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay;

Ah, happy! if each tear of thine

Could wash a father's fault away!

Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears

Auspicious to these suffering isles ;

And be each drop in future years

Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!

March, 1812.


From the Turkish.


The chain I gave was fair to view,

The lute I added sweet in sound,

The heart that offered both was true,

And ill deserved the fate it found.


These gifts were charmed by secret spell

Thy truth in absence to divine;

And they have done their duty well,

Alas! they could not teach thee thine.


That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;

That lute was sweet-till thou could'st think

In other hands its notes were such.


Let him, who from thy neck unbound

The chain which shivered in his grasp,

Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.


When thou wert changed, they altered too;

The chain is broke, the music mute :

'Tis past to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

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