Doomed to a third and last captivity,
  His freedom he recovered on the eve
  Of Julia’s travail.  When the babe was born,
  Its presence tempted him to cherish schemes
  Of future happiness.  “You shall return, 190
  Julia,” said he, “and to your father’s house
  Go with the child.—­You have been wretched; yet
  The silver shower, whose reckless burthen weighs
  Too heavily upon the lily’s head,
  Oft leaves a saving moisture at its root. 195
  Malice, beholding you, will melt away. 
  Go!—­’tis a town where both of us were born;
  None will reproach you, for our truth is known;
  And if, amid those once-bright bowers, our fate
  Remain unpitied, pity is not in man. 200
  With ornaments—­the prettiest, nature yields
  Or art can fashion, shall you deck our [12] boy,
  And feed his countenance with your own sweet looks
  Till no one can resist him.—­Now, even now,
  I see him sporting on the sunny lawn; 205
  My father from the window sees him too;
  Startled, as if some new-created thing
  Enriched the earth, or Faery of the woods
  Bounded before him;—­but the unweeting Child
  Shall by his beauty win his grandsire’s heart 210
  So that it shall be softened, and our loves
  End happily, as they began!”

                                These gleams
  Appeared but seldom; oftener was he seen
  Propping a pale and melancholy face 215
  Upon the Mother’s bosom; resting thus
  His head upon one breast, while from the other
  The Babe was drawing in its quiet food. 
—­That pillow is no longer to be thine,
  Fond Youth! that mournful solace now must pass 220
  Into the list of things that cannot be! 
  Unwedded Julia, terror-smitten, hears
  The sentence, by her mother’s lip pronounced,
  That dooms her to a convent.—­Who shall tell,
  Who dares report, the tidings to the lord 225
  Of her affections? so they blindly asked
  Who knew not to what quiet depths a weight
  Of agony had pressed the Sufferer down: 
  The word, by others dreaded, he can hear
  Composed and silent, without visible sign 230
  Of even the least emotion.  Noting this,
  When the impatient object of his love
  Upbraided him with slackness, he returned
  No answer, only took the mother’s hand
  And kissed it; seemingly devoid of pain, 235
  Or care, that what so tenderly he pressed
  Was a dependant on [13] the obdurate heart
  Of one who came to disunite their lives
  For ever—­sad alternative! preferred,
  By the unbending Parents of the Maid, 240
  To secret ’spousals meanly disavowed. 
—­So be it!