Thus were we all throng’d in so strait a cage,
    I changed my looks and hair, before my age,
    Dreaming on liberty (by strong desire
    My soul made apt to hope), and did admire
    Those gallant minds, enslaved to such a woe
    (My heart within my breast dissolved like snow
    Before the sun), as one would side-ways cast
    His eye on pictures, which his feet hath pass’d.

    ANNA HUME.

THE SAME.

PART I.

      The fatal morning dawn’d that brought again
    The sad memorial of my ancient pain;
    That day, the source of long-protracted woe,
    When I began the plagues of Love to know,
    Hyperion’s throne, along the azure field,
    Between the splendid horns of Taurus wheel’d;
    And from her spouse the Queen of Morn withdrew
    Her sandals, gemm’d with frost-bespangled dew. 
    Sad recollection, rising with the morn,
    Of my disastrous love, repaid with scorn,
    Oppressed my sense; till welcome soft repose
    Gave a short respite from my swelling woes. 
    Then seem’d I in a vision borne away,
    Where a deep winding vale sequester’d lay;
    Nor long I rested on the flowery green
    Ere a soft radiance dawn’d along the scene.—­
    Fallacious sign of hope! for, close behind,
    Dark shades of coming woe were seen combined. 
    There, on his car, a conqu’ring chief I spied,
    Like Rome’s proud sons, that led the living tide
    Of vanquished foes, in long triumphal state,
    To Capitolian Jove’s disclosing gate. 
    With little joy I saw the splendid show,
    Spent and dejected by my lengthen’d woe;
    Sick of the world, and all its worthless train,
    That world, where all the hateful passions reign;
    And yet intent the mystic cause to find,
    (For knowledge is the banquet of the mind)
    Languid and slow I turn’d my cheerless eyes
    On the proud warrior, and his uncouth guise. 
    High on his seat an archer youth was seen,
    With loaded quiver, and malicious mien
    Nor plate, nor mail, his cruel shaft can ward,
    Nor polish’d burganet the temples guard;
    His burning chariot seem’d by coursers drawn;
    While, like the snows that clothe the wintry lawn
    His waving wings with rainbow colour gay
    On either naked shoulder seem’d to play;
    And, filing far behind, a countless train
    In sad procession hid the groaning plain: 
    Some, captive, seem’d in long disastrous strife,
    Some, in the deadly fray, bereft of life;
    And freshly wounded some.  A viewless hand
    Led me to mingle with the mornful band,
    And learn the fortunes of the sentenced crew,
    Who, pierced by Love, had bid the world adieu. 
    With keen survey I mark’d