Valuing herself now only on her spiritual graces,
Lady Bellingham opened the profane legend, which, she expected, described
personal attractions; and to her astonishment recognized the writing of
her son, of whom she had heard no certain tidings since the battle of
Preston, but who was supposed, both by Cromwell and herself, to be in the
north of Ireland, where an officer of the same name had gained celebrity.
The date proved that he had been a resident in Dr. Beaumont's family; no
name was prefixed, but the lines breathed a permanent attachment, to
which, after some resistance, he had entirely surrendered his heart.
O place thy breast against a turbid stream,
Beat with strong arm the flood, and tread the wave,
Or toil incessant 'neath the burning beam,
When, like a giant woke from wassail-dream,
Sol rushes furious from the lion's cave:
Then mayst thou know how hard to stem the tide
Of chaste desire, and love's o'erwhelming storm,
When by entranc'd affection first descry'd,
Beauty and truth, such as in Heaven reside,
Appear on earth in woman's lovely form.
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