BOOK IV.
Not so the queen: a deep wound drains
The healthful current of her veins:
Long since the unsuspected flame
Has fastened on her fevered frame:
Much dwells she on the chief divine,
Much on the glories of his line:
Each look is pictured in her breast,
Each word: nor passion lets her rest.
Soon as Aurora, tricked anew,
Had drawn from heaven the veil of dew,
Behold her thus her care impart
To the fond sister of her heart:
'What portents, Anna, sister dear,
Possess ray troubled dreams!
What strange unwonted guest is here!
How hero-like he seems!
How bold his port! how fair his face!
'Tis no vain tale, his heavenly race.
Fear proves a base-born soul: but he—
What perils his from war and sea!
Were not my purpose fixed as fate
With none in wedlock's band to mate,
Since my first passion falsely played
And left me by grim death betrayed—
