Her modesty, and simpleness, and grace:
Yet those who deeper scan the human face,
Amid the trial-hour of fear or ruth,
Might clearly read, upon its heaven-writ scroll,
That high and firm resolve, which nerv'd the Roman soul.
xxviii.
The simple sports that charm'd her childhood's way,
Her greenwood gambols 'mid the matted vines,
The curious glance, of wild and searching ray,
Where innocence with ignorance combines,
Were chang'd for deeper thought's persuasive air,
Or that high port a princess well might wear:
So fades the doubtful star, when morning shines;
So melts the young dawn at the enkindling ray,
And on the crimson cloud casts off its mantle grey.
xxix.
On sped the tardy seasons. Need I say
What still the indignant lyre declines to tell?
How, by rude hands, the maiden, borne away,
Was forc'd amid the invaders' homes to dwell?
Yet no harsh bonds the guiltless prisoner wore;
No sharp constraint her gentle spirit bore,
Held as a hostage in the stranger's cell;
So, to her wayward fate, submissive still,
She meekly bow'd her heart, to learn a Saviour's will.
