How could that stern old king deny
The angel pleading in her eye?
How mock the sweet, imploring grace.
That breathed in beauty from her faee,
And to her kneeling action gave
A power to soothe, and still subdue,
Until, though humble as a slave,
To more than queenly sway she grew?
Oh! brief the doubt—oh! short the strife;
She wins the captive's forfeit life;