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To secret banishment, and made thee prisoner, Chance brought me to the village, and I watch'd Above her and her child—

Her child!

It was two years before the mother died; With her last breath she gave her to my charge.

What of the orphan?

For years I saw her grow in loveliness, And deem'd her happy in her lowly state; For Lucca was distracted with the wars Her nobles kept among themselves.

I dread—yet still must ask—does my child live?

But that it breaks a link with this sad world, My heart would fail me—no, the girl is dead! She had just sprung to blooming womanhood, When Heaven claim'd its own. The Florentines Burnt Arola, the village where she dwelt; Not one escaped to tell the tale of death!

Oh, subtle force of nature's secret love! That child, although I knew her not for mine, Has been my care; I have reproach'd myself That more my heart drew to her than Bianca: Our house almost enforced my second marriage.