I.
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HE wearies with an ill unknown;In sleep she sobs and seems to float,A water-lily, all aloneWithin a lonely castle-moat;And as the full-moon, spectral, liesWithin the crescent’s gleaming arms,The present shows her heedless eyesA future dim with vague alarms.She sees, and yet she scarcely sees,For, life-in-life not yet begun,Too many are its mysteriesFor thought to fix on any one.She’s told that maidens are by youthsExtremely honour’d and desired;And sighs, ‘If those sweet tales be truths,What bliss to be so much admired!’The suitors come; she sees them grieve;Her coldness fills them with despair;She’d pity if she could believe;She’s sorry that she cannot care.But who now meets her on her way?Comes he as enemy or friend,Or both? Her bosom seems to say,He cannot pass, and there an end.Whom does he love? Does he conferHis heart on worth that answers his?Or is he come to worship her?She fears, she hopes, she thinks he is!Advancing stepless, quick, and still,As in the grass a serpent glides,He fascinates her fluttering will,Then terrifies with dreadful strides.At first, there’s nothing to resist;He fights with all the forms of peace;He comes about her like a mist,With subtle, swift, unseen increase;And then, unlook’d for, strikes amainSome stroke that frightens her to death,And grows all harmlessness again,Ere she can cry, or get her breath.At times she stops, and stands at bay;But he, in all more strong than she,Subdues her with his pale dismay,Or more admired audacity.She plans some final, fatal blow,But when she means with frowns to kill,He looks as if he loved her so,She smiles to him against her will.How sweetly he implies her praise!His tender talk, his gentle tone,The manly worship in his gaze,They nearly make her heart his own.With what an air he speaks her name;His manner always recollectsHer sex, and still the woman’s claimIs taught its scope by his respects.Her charms, perceived to prosper firstIn his beloved advertencies,When in her glass they are rehearsed,Prove his most powerful allies.Ah, whither shall a maiden flee,When a bold youth so swift pursues,And siege of tenderest courtesy,With hope perseverant, still renews!Why fly so fast? Her flatter’d breastThanks him who finds her fair and good;She loves her fears; veil’d joys arrestThe foolish terrors of her blood;By secret, sweet degrees, her heart,Vanquish’d, takes warmth from his desire;She makes it more, with hidden art,And fuels love’s late dreaded fire.The generous credit he accordsTo all the signs of good in herRedeems itself; his praiseful wordsThe virtues they impute confer.Her heart is thrice as rich in bliss,She’s three times gentler than before;He gains a right to call her his,Now she through him is so much more;’Tis heaven where’er she turns her head;’Tis music when she talks; ’tis airOn which, elate, she seems to tread,The convert of a gladder sphere!Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved,Behold his tokens next her breast,At all his words and sighs perceivedAgainst its blythe upheaval press’d!But still she flies. Should she be won,It must not be believed or thoughtShe yields; she’s chased to death, undone,Surprised, and violently caught.
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