CONTENTS.
[To ——, with Arthur and Albina] [On the Eve of Departure from O——] [Written in Zimmermann's Solitude] | |
[!-- RULE4 1 --] To —— WITH ARTHUR and ALBINA.
1794.
Ah! if your eye should e'er these lines survey,
Dismiss from thence its penetrating ray:
Let Criticism then her distance keep,
And dreaded Justice then be lull'd to sleep;
For, let whatever sentence be their due,
I feel I cannot censure bear from you.
A British Maid awaits the arrival of her lover from the battle, on a hill, where, at its commencement, she had retired to make vows to heaven for his success.—Evening.
[!-- RULE4 1a --] ARTHUR and ALBINA.
| Ah me! the yellow western sky turns pale, And leaves the cheerless sons of earth to mourn; And yet I hear not in the silent vale, A sound to tell me Arthur does return. Ah, haste ye hours! quick plume the loit'ring wing! Bring back my hero, crown'd with glorious spoils! Let bards on lofty harps his triumphs sing, And loud applause repay successful toils! Reward the flame, ye great celestial pow'rs, The noble flame that in his bosom glows! Inspire him, Druids, from your holy bow'rs, With strength to conquer iron-breasted foes![1] With heighten'd vigour brace his nervous arm, And let his lance with ten-fold fury fly, Make him terrific by some potent charm, And add new lightening to his piercing eye! Then may my lover gain unrivall'd fame, The Roman banners may less proudly flow, Then he may humble their detested name, And their high plumes wave o'er' a British brow! Then may his chariot,[2] wheeling o'er the plain, Hurl death and desolation all around, While his intrepid front appals their train, And make our proud invaders bite the ground! But yet I hear no lively foot advance; No sound of triumph greets my list'ning ear!' And I may carve this eagle-darting lance For one, whose voice I never more shall hear! Perhaps my vows have never reach'd the skies, Nor heav'n, propitious, smil'd upon my pray'r; And ah! to morrow's crimson dawn may rise To plunge me in the horrors of despair! Yet well he knows the dreadful spear to wield— Alas! their fearful limbs are fenc'd with care: And, what can valour, when th'extended shield[3] May leave, so oft, his gen'rous bosom bare? Say, reverend Druids, can you bless in vain? Can you in vain extend your spotless hands? Will not heav'n listen when its priests complain, And save its altars from unhallow'd bands? Oh yes! I'll fear no more! The sacred groves,[4] That rear their untouch'd branches to the skies; Beneath whose shade its chosen servant roves, Hidden from weak, unconsecrated eyes: Beneath whose shade the choral bards rehearse, Piercing, with uprais'd eyes, each mist that shrouds, And, listening, catch the heav'n-dictated verse, By airs etherial wailed from the clouds: It ne'er can be—but hark! I hear the sound Of some one's step; yet not the youth I love; He would have flown, and scarcely touch'd the ground, Not ling'ring thus, with weary caution, move. The heavy wanderer approaches nigh, But the drear darkness skreens him from my views Ah, gracious heav'n! it was my Arthur's sigh, Which the unwilling breeze so faintly blew. Oh speak! inform me what I have to fear! Speak, and relieve my doubting, trembling heart! To thy Albina, with a tongue sincere, A portion of thy wretchedness impart!" "Sweet maid," replied the wounded, dying youth, In accents mournful, tremulous and slow, "Yes, I will ever answer thee with truth, While yet the feeble tide of life shall flow. We made the haughty Roman chiefs retire, The tow'ring, sacrilegious eagle[5] flew; Our bosoms swell'd with more than mortal fire, When from the field indignant they withdrew. But ill bespeaks my faint and languid tongue, The glowing beauties of that joyful sight; Ill can my breast, with keenest torture wrung, Dwell on the charming terrors of the fight. To others then I leave the envied strain, Which shall for ages rend the British air; Nor will thy partial ear expect, in vain, To find the humble name of Arthur there. I go, while now the victory is warm, The just reward of valour to obtain; Soon I return, clad in a nobler form,[6] Again to triumph, and again be slain. Ah! then, my dear Albina, cease to grieve, Nor at thy lover's glorious fate repine; For, though my present favour'd form I leave, This constant heart shall still be only thine. Alas! e'en now I feel the icy hand Of hasty death, press down my swelling heart; E'en now I hear a sweet aerial band, Summon thy faithful Arthur to depart. Let not thy tears an absent lover mourn, Remember that he bravely, nobly died; Remember that he quickly will return, And claim again his lov'd, his destin'd bride." As thus the warrior's fainting spirits fled, And parting life streamed forth at every vein, His quivering lip, in whispers, softly said, "Remember, Arthur dies to live again!" "Oh stay, dear youth!" the hapless maiden cries, My best-lov'd Arthur, but one moment stay! And close not yet those all-enlivening eyes, So lately lighted at the torch of day. Ah! yet once more, that look of tender love, Of fond regret, my Arthur, let me view! Let one more effort thy affection, prove, And bid me once, once more, a long adieu. Now, ere the moon withdraws her feeble light, Ope yet again on me thy fading eye! He hears not! memory has ta'en her flight, And vanish'd with that last convulsive sigh. Why did I variegated wreaths prepare, To pay the conqueror every honor due? Or, why, with fillets, bind my flowing hair, And tinge my arms of the bright azure hue?[7] Oh! must this constant bosom beat no more? This skilful hand no more direct the spear? Must lost Albina still her fate deplore, And ever drop the unavailing tear? Must I no more that lovely face review, Expressing each emotion of the mind? No more repeat a sweetly sad adieu? No more gay chaplets on his forehead bind? His forehead, high and fair, with martial grace, And bold, free curls of glossy chesnut crown'd; The full, dark eye-brow which adorn'd his face, O'erwhelming foes with terror as he frown'd. His voice, though strong, harmoniously clear, No more shall fill Albina with delight; No more shall sooth her still-attentive ear, And make her fancy every sorrow light. Farewell to love, to happiness, and joy! Yet will I cull the summer's choicest bloom; Funereal chaplets shall my time employ, And wither daily on my Arthur's tomb." As thus she mourn'd, with bitterest woe opprest, A ray of light illumin'd all the grove, And a consoling voice the fair addrest, In the soft accents of parental love. Though still she clasp'd her hero's valued corse, She slowly rais'd her languid, streaming eyes, And own'd astonishment's resistless force, Viewing the stranger with a wild surprize. The form was clad in robes of purest white, That swept with solemn dignity the ground; Contrasting with the blackest gloom of night, Which reign'd in awful majesty around. The silver beard did reverence demand,[8] And told her that a holy bard was there, Whose shrivell'd fingers grasp'd a flaming brand, Which threw a lustre on the waving hair. His eye possess'd the brilliant fire of youth, United with the wisdom of the sage; And speaking, with the simple voice of truth, He blended the solemnity of age. "Arise! thou loveliest of misfortune's train, And cease these weak, desponding tears to shed; The soft effusions of thy grief restrain, Which serve but to disturb the peaceful dead. The youth you mourn, far from these scenes of woe, To worlds of never-ending joy is flown; Where his blest bosom with delight shall glow, And his fair temples wear a princely crown. Ah then, presumptuous! question not the skies, Nor more with vain laments his loss deplore; Attend to this, and cease your fruitless sighs, You soon shall meet where you can part no more."[9] Awe-struck, his sacred wisdom she confest, Which pour'd sweet consolation on her mind; She cross'd her blood-stain'd hands upon her breast, And bow'd her humble, grateful head, resign'd. AUGUST 27, 1794. |
[!-- Note Anchor 1 --]1: Alluding to the armour of the Romani.
[!-- Note Anchor 2 --]2: The Britons fought in low chariots, which they could leave and re-ascend at pleasure.
[!-- Note Anchor 3 --]3: The shield being their only armour, when held out to protect a wounded or dying friend, left them defenceless.
[!-- Note Anchor 4 --]4: The groves were consecrated to the celebration of religious mysteries.
[!-- Note Anchor 5 --]5: The Roman standard.
[!-- Note Anchor 6 --]6: The Druids are said to have preached the doctrine of transmigration, in order to inspire their warriors with the greater contempt of death.
[!-- Note Anchor 7 --]7: The practice of staining themselves with blue was common among the Britons.
[!-- Note Anchor 8 --]8: The people, excepting the priests, shaved off all the hair from their faces, but what grew on the upper lip.
[!-- Note Anchor 9 --]9: This equivocal manner of speech may be supposed natural enough in one of this order of priests, who, it is said, held a more refined idea of a future state than they preached to the people.
| Alas! no more that joyous morn appears That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame; For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears, SHENSTONE. |
[!-- RULE4 2 --] THE FRATERNAL DUEL.
| 'Oh! hide me from the sun! I loath the sight! I cannot bear his bright, obtrusive ray: Nought is so dreadful to my gloom as light! Nothing so dismal as the blaze of day! No more may I its sparkling glories view! No more its piercing lustre meet my eye! On night's black wings my only comfort flew; At breath of morn I sicken and I die. Where can I fly? In what sequester'd clime Does darkness ever hold her ebon reign? Where woeful dirges measure out the time, And endless echoes breathe the sullen strain. Where dreary mountains rear their low'ring heads, To pierce the heavy and umbrageous clouds; And where the cavern dewy moisture sheds, And night's thick veil the guilty mourner shrouds. There, lost in horrors, I might vent my sighs; To open misery myself resign; Might snatch each torturing vision ere it flies, And feast on prospects desolate as mine. Oh! let me thither quickly take my flight, And chuse a favourite and a final seat, In scenes which would each gentler mind affright, But for my guilt affords a fit retreat. There, where no ray, no gleam of light could come, There, and there only, could I find relief; There might I ruminate on Edward's doom, And lose myself in luxury of grief. And, as it is, though joys around me shine, Though pleasure here erects her dazzling brow, Wrapt in despondence, will I droop and pine, And tears of anguish shall for ever flow. Oh Edward! could'st thou see this alter'd frame, Which youthful graces lately did adorn! Could'st thou behold, and think me still the same, Thy once gay friend, thus hapless and forlorn? The cheek, so late by ruddy health embrown'd, Now pale and faded with incessant tears; The eye, which once elate, disdain'd the ground, Now sunk and languid in its orb appears. Oh! never, never will I cease to grieve! And sure repentance pardon may obtain! Can woe unfeign'd incite heav'n to relieve A wretch opprest with agonizing pain? Ah no! my hands are stain'd with brother's blood! A father's curses load my sinking head! I wish to die, but dare not pass the flood, For there, as well as here, my hopes are fled. Sleep, which was meant to chase away the thought, To lull the sound of dissonant despair, Appears to me with added terrors fraught, And my torn heart can find no refuge there. If, for a moment, I its fetters wear, And its soft pressure these pale eyes controul, I injur'd Emma's just reproaches hear, Or Edward's form appals my shrinking soul. When in those transitory sleeps I lie, I oft his beauteous, bleeding form review; A mild, benignant lustre lights his eye, As come to bid a friend a last adieu. I start, I shudder at his tuneful voice, When it, in soothing whispers, meets my ear; That sound, which oft has made my heart rejoice, I now all-trembling and affrighted hear. Was it thy fault, dear, much-lamented youth If lovely Emma did thy suit prefer? She saw thee form'd of tenderness and truth, And kings might glory to be lov'd by her. Thy native sweetness won her artless heart; And well our different characters she knew; Whilst thy mild looks did happiness impart, She saw the murderer in each glance I threw. Yet for this, meanly, did I thee upbraid, And basely urg'd an elder brother's right; Then, calling impious passion to my aid, Forc'd thee, unwilling, to the fatal fight. Oh! ne'er shall I forget the dreadful hour, I sheath'd my weapon in thy noble breast; Thy dying hand clasp'd mine, with feeble pow'r, And to thy mangled bosom fondly prest. Whilst o'er thee, I, in speechless anguish hung, Thou saw'st the wild distraction of my eye; And, though the chills of death restrain'd thy tongue Thy bosom heav'd a sympathetic sigh. With cruel tenderness my friends contriv'd, To bear me from the drear, polluted shore; Of every joy, of peace itself depriv'd, Which this despairing breast shall know no more. Since this what frenzy has inspir'd my mind! My tortur'd mem'ry cannot it retrace; No relique now of former days I find, But horrors, which e'en madness can't efface. My dearest brother, and my tenderest friend, O come, and save me from this dark abyss! Draw hence the darts which my rack'd bosom rend! And bear me with you to the realms of bliss! Ah! whence that pang which smote my shuddering heart? Where now, for refuge, can lost Anselm fly? 'Tis Death! I know him by his crimson dart! And, am I fit? Oh heav'ns! I cannot die! My spirit is not form'd for rapid flight; It cannot cut the vast expanse of air, No, never can it reach the realms of light, For sin, a weight immoveable, lies there!' Thus wretched Anselm rav'd: unhappy youth! Though passion hurried thee so far astray, Thy infant soul ador'd the God of Truth, And virtue usher'd in thy vernal day. Oh! had he learn'd his passions to restrain, And let cool reason in his breast preside, His op'ning wisdom had not bloom'd in vain, Nor had he, ere the prime of manhood, died. Yet, if remorse could expiate his guilt, If the worst sufferings could the crime erase, If tears could wash away the blood he spilt, Then Anselm's penitence obtain'd him grace. AUGUST 20, 1794. |