With melting look, with merry glance,
They glided thro' the wanton dance;
Or softly trill'd the plaintive measure,
Or wak'd the song to notes of pleasure,
Told tales of love and joy elate,

Nor miss'd one art to fascinate.

XVII.

Not mine the soul, nor mine the eye,

Such wanton grace could gratify.

For modesty I gaz'd around;

Enchantress! O too quickly found!

Our brave commander, in whose smile

Bask'd every earie of the isle,

Selected from the courtly croud,

A chief of birth and lineage proud;

Each virtue grac'd Poeeno's name,

His valor great, and high his fame;
Lovely his wife, their blooming train
Of cherub children trod the plain;
And one more fair, more innocent,
Join'd in their sportive merriment.

XVIII.

Avanna she, his sister mild,

Not woman yet, yet more than child;

Not in the vales of England blows

Less conscious of its charms the rose;

Not

purer that bright stainless flower,-

Man had not told her of her power;
On nature's beauties she would dwell,
On floweret fair and brilliant shell,

But never did the maiden guess

Her own unrivall'd loveliness.

Full soon I learnt that foreign tongue,

Full soon each love-lorn lay I sung;

And soon Avanna bent her ear,

The flattering tale of love to hear;

Soon she an answering tale could tell,—

Oh pardon that on this I dwell!

XIX.

But Christian lov'd, and in his soul

The restless feeling mock'd control:

Love, such wild war his passions wage,
Took in his breast the form of rage:
Like cataract from mountain height,
It rush'd tempestuous, wild and bright,

A foaming torrent dash'd its spray,
And swept opposing rocks away:

His passion soar'd on eagle wing,

He lov'd the sister of the king.

And she with kindred ardor fir'd,

The hero's daring soul admir'd.

XX.

She too-CHRISTINA! dearest, why

Pours the big tear-drop from thine eye?

Why weep'st thou, sweet? Her sad offence

Was sure redeem'd by penitence!

Thy virtues and thy life alone,

A parent's errors might atone;
"Retire, my child!" The fair obey'd,

And Henry join'd the weeping maid;

With tender care, and fond delay,

He sought to cheer her on the way;
Nor till she smil'd, and wept no more,
Would leave her at the cottage door!

XXI.

Fitzallan's penetrating eye

That tender glance could well espy;

O! in that look could he have known
That Henry's ardent soul had flown;
Had he but guest how midnight past,
That tender glance had been the last :
But little reck'd he, English heart

So soon should feel love's bitter smart!

There was an eye, that mark'd the flush

Of love in Henry's kindling blush;

There was an ear,

whose quicken'd sense

Caught the sweet thanks of innocence;

A heart, whose jealous pangs confest CHRISTINA'S empire o'er the breast!—

Again the Briton sought the vale,

Again the chief pursu'd his tale.