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Rh Were bed and bridal aught but pain,

Perchance I had been weak again.

Dear Anna! aye, I will confess,

Since that wild moment of distress

When poor Sychæus foully bled,

And brother's crime a home made red,

He, he alone has touched my heart,

And made my faltering purpose start.

E'en in these ashen embers cold

I feel the spark I felt of old.

But first for me may Earth unseal

The horrors of her womb,

Or Jove with awful thunderpeal

Dismiss me into gloom,

The gloom of Orcus' dim twilight,

Or deeper still, primeval night,

Ere wound I thee, my woman's fame,

Or disallow thy sacred claim.

My heart to him on whom 'twas set

Has passed: and let him hold it yet,

And keep it in his tomb.'

She said, and speaking bathed her breast

With tears that would not be repressed.

Then Anna 'Sweeter than the day

To your fond sister's eye!

And will you pine your youth away

In loveless fantasy,

Nor wedded joy, nor children know,

As constancy were prized below?

Grant that no noble suitor yet

Has made your widowed heart forget,

In Libya now, as erst at Tyre:

Iarbas, and the rest who reign

In haughty Afric sued in vain:

But would you quench a welcome fire?