Now rude tumultuous sounds assail her ear,
And soon Alphonso’s victor train appear: 
Then, as with ling’ring step he mov’d along, 95
She saw her father mid’ the captive throng;
She saw with dire dismay, she wildly flew,
Her snowy arms around his form she threw: 
“He bleeds (she cries) I hear his moan of pain,
“My father will not bear the galling chain; 100
“My tender father will his child forsake,
“His mourning child, but soon her heart will break. 
“Cruel Alphonso, let not helpless age
“Feel thy hard yoke, and meet thy barb’rous rage;
“Or, oh, if ever mercy mov’d thy soul, 105
“If ever thou hast felt her blest controul,
“Grant my sad heart’s desire, and let me share
“The load, that feeble frame but ill can bear.”

While the young victor, as she falt’ring spoke,
With fix’d attention, and with ardent look, 110
Hung on her tender glance, that love inspires,
The rage of conquest yields to milder fires. 
Yet, as he gaz’d enraptur’d on her form,
Her virtues awe the heart her beauties warm;
And, while impassion’d tones his love reveal, 115
He asks with holy rites his vows to seal—­
“Hop’st thou, she cried, those sacred ties shall join
“This bleeding heart, this trembling hand to thine? 
“To thine, whose ruthless heart has caus’d my pains,
“Whose barb’rous hands the blood of Zamor stains! 120
“Can’st thou—­the murd’rer of my peace, controul
“The grief that swells, the pang that rends my soul? 
“That pang shall death, shall death alone remove,
“And cure the anguish of despairing love.”

In vain th’ enamour’d youth essay’d each art 125
To calm her sorrows, and to sooth her heart;
While, in the range of thought, her tender breast
Could find no hope, on which her griefs might rest,
While her soft soul, which Zamor’s image fills,
Shrinks from the cruel author of its ills. 130
At length to madness stung by fix’d disdain,
The victor gives to rage the fiery rein;
And bids her sorrows flow from that fond source
Where strong affection feels their keenest force,
Whose breast, when most it suffers, only heeds 135
The sharper pangs by which another bleeds: 
For now his cruel mandate doom’d her sire
Stretch’d on the bed of torture, to expire;
Bound on the rack, unmov’d the victim lies,
Stifling in agony weak nature’s sighs. 140
But oh, what form of language can impart
The frantic grief that wrung Aciloe’s heart,
When to the height of hopeless sorrow wrought,
The fainting spirit feels a pang of thought,
Which never painted in the hues of speech, 145
Lives at the soul, and mocks expression’s reach!