The Isle of Devils A Historical Tale, Funnded on an Anecdote in the Annals of Portugal. (From an unpublished Manuscript.) By M. G. Lewis |
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 | The Isle of Devils |  |
XII.
“Was such her fate! And did her days then creep,So sad, so slow, till came the eternal sleep?
And did for this her hands with roses twine,
The Saviour's Altar and the Virgin's shrine;
Pure, beauteous, rich—did all these blessings tend,
But from the world in prime of life to send
This gifted maid in prayer to waste her hours,
And weep a fancied crime in cloistered bowers?”
Oh! blind to fate! perhaps that “fancied crime,”
Which bade her quit the world in youthful prime;
Snatched her from paths where beauty, wealth, and fame,
Had proved but snares to load her soul with shame.
And spared her pangs from wilful guilt, whence flow
The only serious ill that man can know.
Ah! what avails it, (since they ne'er can last)
If gay or sad our span of life be past;
Pray mortals, pray, in sickness and in pain,
Not long nor blest to live, but pure from stain.
A life of pleasure, and a life of woe,
When both are past, the difference who can show
But all can tell how wide apart in price,
A life of virtue, and a life of vice.
Then still sad Irza tread thy thorny way,
Since life must end and merits ne'er decay;
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To heal those hearts which still may hope a cure;
Nor doubt the soul which joys in generous deeds,
Shall reap a rich reward when most it needs;
When comes that day to conscious guilt so dread,
Angels unseen shall bathe your burning head:
The prayers of Orphans fall with cooling breath,
And Widows blessings drown the threats of death:
Each sigh your pity hushed, shall swelling rise,
In sweet Hosanna's while you mount the skies;
And every tear on Earth to sorrow given,
To wreath your brows, be precious pearls in Heaven.
| The Isle of Devils | |