"Is it from poverty of soul;
Or does some fear some doubt, controul?
So round the heart strong fibres strain,
That it attempts to beat in vain?
Does palsy on your feelings hang,
Deaden'd by some severer pang?
If so, behold, my eyes o'erflow!
For, O! that anguish well I know!
When once that fatal stroke is given,—
When once that finest nerve is riven,
Our love, our pity, all are o'er;
We even sooth ourselves no more!
"Back, hurrying feelings! to the time
I learnt to clothe my thoughts in rhyme!
When, climbing up my father's knees,
I gaily sang, secure to please!
Rounded his pale and wasted cheek,
And won him, in his turn, to speak:
When, for reward, I closer prest,
And whisper'd much, and much carest;
With timorous eye, and head aside,
Half ask'd, and laugh'd, and then denied;
Ere I again petition made
To hear the often-told crusade.
How, knowing hardship but by name,
Misled by friendship and by fame,
His parents' wishes he disdain'd,
With zeal, nor real quite, nor feign'd;
And fought on many a famous spot;—
The suffering of a captive's lot;
My Georgian mother's daring flight;
The day's concealment, march by night;
Her death, when, touching Christian ground,
They deem'd repose and safety found:
How, on his arm, by night and day,
I, then a happy infant, lay,
And taught him not to mourn, but pray.
How, when, at length, he reach'd his home,
His heart foretold a gentle doom;
With tears of fondness in his eyes,
Hoping to cause a glad surprize;
Full of submission, pondering o'er
What he too lightly priz'd before;
The curse with tenfold vengeance fell.—
Those who had lov'd him once so well,
In whose indulgence perfect trust
Had still been wise, though most unjust,
Were in the grave!—Their hearts were cold!
His penitence might still be told—
Told to the winds! for few would hear,
Or, hearing, deem that tale sincere
His patrimony's lord denied,
Who, hardening in possession's pride,
Affirm'd the rightful owner died.
"A victim from devouring strife,
And slavery, return'd with life;
Possessions, honours, parents gone,
The very hand that urg'd him on,
Now, by its stern repelling, tore
The veil that former falsehood wore!
"When he first bar'd his heart before thy view,
Told all its inmost beatings—told them true;
Nay, e'en the pulse, the secret, trembling thrill,
On which the slightest touch alone would trill [Errata: kill];
While thou, with secret aim, collected art,
Didst wind around that bold, confiding heart,
And, in its warm and healthful breathings fling
A subtle poison, and a deadly sting!
"Where shall we else so fell a traitor find?
The wilful, hard misleader of the blind
And what can be the soul-perverter's meed,
Plotting to lure his friend to such a deed,
As made self-hatred on the conscience lay
That heavy weight she never moves away?
O! where the good man's inner barriers close
'Gainst the world's cruel judgments, and his foes
Enfolding truth, and prayer, and soul's repose,
Thine is a mournful numbness, or a din,
For many strong accusers lurk within!
"And, since this fatal period, in thine eyes
A shrewd and unrelaxing witness lies;
While, on the specious language of the tongue,
Deceit has hateful, warning accents hung;
And outrag'd nature, struggling with a smile,
Announces nought but discontent and guile;
Each trace of fair, auspicious meaning flown,
All that makes man by man belov'd and known.
Silence, indignant thought! forego thy sway!
Silence! and let me measure on my way!
"Soul-struck, and yielding to his fate,
My father left his castle gate.
'Thou,' he would cry, with flowing eyes,
'That moment wert the sacrifice!
Little, alas! avails to thee
Wealth, honours, titles, ancestry;
All lost by me! I dar'd to lift
On high thy welfare, as a gift!
To save thee, dearest, dar'd resign
Thy worldly good! it was not mine!
But, O! I felt around thee twin'd
My very self,—my heart and mind!
All that may chance is dead to me,
Save only as it touches thee!
Could self-infliction but atone
For one who lives in thee alone;
If my repentance and my tears
Could spare thy future smiling years,
The fatal curse should only rest
Upon this firm, though guilty breast?
Yet, tendering from thy vessel's freight
Offerings of such exceeding weight,
And free thee from one earthly chain!
Envy and over-weening hate
Would on thy orphan greatness wait;
Folly that supple nature bend
For parasites to scorn thy friend;
And pamper'd vanity incline
To wilful blindness such as mine!
"'Thee to the altar yet I bring!
Hear me, my Saviour and my King!
Again I for my child resign
All worldly good! but make her thine!
Let her soft footsteps gently move,
Nor waken grief, nor injure love;
Carelessly trampling on the ground
That priceless gem, so rarely found;
That treasure, which, should angels guard,
Would all their vigilance reward!
"'My mind refuses still to fear
She should be cold or insincere;
That aught like meanness should debase
One of our rash and wayward race,
No! most I dread intemperate pride,
Deaf ardour, reckless, and untried,
With firm controul and skilful rein,
Its hurrying fever to restrain!
"'Others might wish their soul's delight
Should be most lovely to the sight;
And beauty vainly I ador'd,
Serv'd with my eye, my tongue, my sword;
Nay, let me not from truth depart!
Enshrin'd and worship'd it at heart.
Oft, when her mother fix'd my gaze,
Enwrapt, on bright perfection's blaze,
Hopes the imperious spell beguil'd,
Transcendant thus to see my child:
But now, for charms of form or face,
Save only purity and grace;
Save sweetness, which all rage disarms,
Would lure an infant to her arms
In instantaneous love; and make
A heart, like mine, with fondness ache;
I little care, so she be free
From such remorse as preys on me!'