Thy presents to some happier lover send;
Content thyself to be Lucinda's friend.
The soft expression of thy gay design
Ill suits the sadness of a heart like mine—
A heart like mine, forever doomed to prove
Each tender woe, but not one joy of love.
First from my arms a dying lover torn,
In early life it was my fate to mourn.
A father next, by fate's relentless doom,
With heartfelt woe I followed to the tomb.
Now all was lost; no friends remained to guide
My erring step, or calm life's boisterous tide.
Again th' admiring youths around me bowed;
And one I singled from the sighing crowd.
Well skilled he was in every winning art—
To warm the fancy, or to touch the heart.
Why must my pen the noble praise deny,
Which virtue, worth, and honor should supply?
O youth beloved! what pangs my breast has borne
To find thee false, ungrateful, and forsworn!
A shade and darkness o'er my prospect spreads,
The damps of night and death's eternal shades.
The scorpion's sting, by disappointment brought,
And all the horrors of despairing thought,
Sad as they are, I might, perhaps, endure,
And bear with patience what admits no cure.
But here my bosom is to madness moved;
I suffer by the wrongs of him I loved.
O, had I died by pitying Heaven's decree,
Nor proved so black, so base, a mind in thee!
But vain the wish; my heart was doomed to prove
Each torturing pang, but not one joy of love.
Wouldst thou again fallacious prospects spread,
And woo me from the confines of the dead?
The pleasing scenes that charmed me once retrace—
Gay scenes of rapture and ecstatic bliss?
How did my heart embrace the dear deceit,
And fondly cherish the deluding cheat!
Delusive hope, and wishes sadly vain,
Unless to sharpen disappointment's pain.
These are but the fragmentary proofs of her poetic ability; still they are the most that have been preserved bearing full authenticity; yet these betray a skilful and accustomed pen, though stamped with the bitterness of woe.
Here, then, we will take up the idea which we left several pages back, in order to introduce a quotation from a volume of singular power in behalf of those thus gifted, who are every where looked upon with some degree of suspicion at least, as I find our heroine was even long before she wandered from the path of virtue. I quote it only to soften the harsher judgment of the world, ever eager to condemn what it cannot comprehend; yet must it by no means be made to apologize for any sin.
While I am willing to be known as believing that genius can be governed by no conventional laws, but is ever a law unto itself, I am also in the full belief of the independent moral power of every individual to regulate his own acts according to the purest code of morality. But to the quotation, which, with the above remarks, the reader would find pertinent to time and place had he turned over the historical pages having a bearing on this romance which I have.
"The strong seductions and fierce trials of the heart of genius who shall estimate? * * * What does an ordinary mind know of the inner storm and whirlwind, as it were, of restlessness; the craving after excitement and high action; the inability to calm the breast and repose in fixity; the wild beatings and widowed longings after sympathy? * * * It is the severe lot of genius that its blessedness should be its bane; that that wherein its heavenly franchise gives it to excel mankind is the point wherein it should be cursed above its brethren!"
More I might quote; but these few extracts are sufficient for my purpose; and I hasten to conclude this chapter with what may to the general reader appear more relevant.