Withgrief and tears (my soul's proud sovereign's food)I ever nourish still my aching heart;I feel my blanching cheek, and oft I startAs on Love's sharp engraven wound I brood.But she, who e'er on earth unrivall'd stood,Flits o'er my couch, when prostrate by his dartI lie; and there her presence doth impart.Whilst scarce my eyes dare meet their vision'd good,With that fair hand in life I so desired,She stays my eyes' sad tide; her voice's toneAwakes the balm earth ne'er to man can give:And thus she speaks:—"Oh! vain hath wisdom firedThe hopeless mourner's breast; no more bemoan,I am not dead—would thou like me couldst live!"Wollaston.
Withgrief and tears (my soul's proud sovereign's food)I ever nourish still my aching heart;I feel my blanching cheek, and oft I startAs on Love's sharp engraven wound I brood.But she, who e'er on earth unrivall'd stood,Flits o'er my couch, when prostrate by his dartI lie; and there her presence doth impart.Whilst scarce my eyes dare meet their vision'd good,With that fair hand in life I so desired,She stays my eyes' sad tide; her voice's toneAwakes the balm earth ne'er to man can give:And thus she speaks:—"Oh! vain hath wisdom firedThe hopeless mourner's breast; no more bemoan,I am not dead—would thou like me couldst live!"
Wollaston.
Tothat soft look which now adorns the skies,The graceful bending of the radiant head,The face, the sweet angelic accents fled,That soothed me once, but now awake my sighsOh! when to these imagination flies,I wonder that I am not long since dead!'Tis she supports me, for her heavenly treadIs round my couch when morning visions rise!In every attitude how holy, chaste!How tenderly she seems to hear the taleOf my long woes, and their relief to seek!But when day breaks she then appears in hasteThe well-known heavenward path again to scale,With moisten'd eye, and soft expressive cheek!Morehead.
Tothat soft look which now adorns the skies,The graceful bending of the radiant head,The face, the sweet angelic accents fled,That soothed me once, but now awake my sighsOh! when to these imagination flies,I wonder that I am not long since dead!'Tis she supports me, for her heavenly treadIs round my couch when morning visions rise!In every attitude how holy, chaste!How tenderly she seems to hear the taleOf my long woes, and their relief to seek!But when day breaks she then appears in hasteThe well-known heavenward path again to scale,With moisten'd eye, and soft expressive cheek!
Morehead.
'Tissweet, though sad, my trembling thoughts to raise,As memory dwells upon that form so dear,And think that now e'en angels join to praiseThe gentle virtues that adorn'd her here;That face, that look, in fancy to behold—To hear that voice that did with music vie—The bending head, crown'd with its locks of gold—All, allthat charm'd, now but sad thoughts supply.How had I lived her bitter loss to weep,If that pure spirit, pitying my woe,Had not appear'd to bless my troubled sleep,Ere memory broke upon the world below?What pure, what gentle greetings then were mine!In what attention wrapt she paused to hearMy life's sad course, of which she bade me speak!But as the dawn from forth the East did shineBack to that heaven to which her way was clear,She fled,—while falling tears bedew'd each cheek.Wrottesley.
'Tissweet, though sad, my trembling thoughts to raise,As memory dwells upon that form so dear,And think that now e'en angels join to praiseThe gentle virtues that adorn'd her here;That face, that look, in fancy to behold—To hear that voice that did with music vie—The bending head, crown'd with its locks of gold—All, allthat charm'd, now but sad thoughts supply.How had I lived her bitter loss to weep,If that pure spirit, pitying my woe,Had not appear'd to bless my troubled sleep,Ere memory broke upon the world below?What pure, what gentle greetings then were mine!In what attention wrapt she paused to hearMy life's sad course, of which she bade me speak!But as the dawn from forth the East did shineBack to that heaven to which her way was clear,She fled,—while falling tears bedew'd each cheek.
Wrottesley.
Love, haply, was erewhile a sweet relief;I scarce know when; but now it bitter growsBeyond all else. Who learns from life well knows,As I have learnt to know from heavy grief;She, of our age, who was its honour chief,Who now in heaven with brighter lustre glows,Has robb'd my being of the sole reposeIt knew in life, though that was rare and brief.Pitiless Death my every good has ta'en!Not the great bliss of her fair spirit freedCan aught console the adverse life I lead.I wept and sang; who now can wake no strain,But day and night the pent griefs of my soulFrom eyes and tongue in tears and verses roll.Macgregor.
Love, haply, was erewhile a sweet relief;I scarce know when; but now it bitter growsBeyond all else. Who learns from life well knows,As I have learnt to know from heavy grief;She, of our age, who was its honour chief,Who now in heaven with brighter lustre glows,Has robb'd my being of the sole reposeIt knew in life, though that was rare and brief.Pitiless Death my every good has ta'en!Not the great bliss of her fair spirit freedCan aught console the adverse life I lead.I wept and sang; who now can wake no strain,But day and night the pent griefs of my soulFrom eyes and tongue in tears and verses roll.
Macgregor.
Sorrowand Love encouraged my poor tongue,Discreet in sadness, where it should not go,To speak of her for whom I burn'd and sung,What, even were it true, 'twere wrong to show.That blessèd saint my miserable stateMight surely soothe, and ease my spirit's strife,Since she in heaven is now domesticateWith Him who ever ruled her heart in life.Wherefore I am contented and consoled,Nor would again in life her form behold;Nay, I prefer to die, and live alone.Fairer than ever to my mental eye,I see her soaring with the angels high,Before our Lord, her maker and my own.Macgregor.
Sorrowand Love encouraged my poor tongue,Discreet in sadness, where it should not go,To speak of her for whom I burn'd and sung,What, even were it true, 'twere wrong to show.That blessèd saint my miserable stateMight surely soothe, and ease my spirit's strife,Since she in heaven is now domesticateWith Him who ever ruled her heart in life.Wherefore I am contented and consoled,Nor would again in life her form behold;Nay, I prefer to die, and live alone.Fairer than ever to my mental eye,I see her soaring with the angels high,Before our Lord, her maker and my own.
Macgregor.
Mylove and grief compell'd me to proclaimMy heart's lament, and urged me to conveyThat, were it true, of her I should not sayWho woke alike my song and bosom's flame.For I should comfort find, 'mid this world's shame,To mark her soul's beatified array,To think that He who here had own'd its sway,Doth now within his home its presence claim.And true I comfort find—myself resign'd,I would not woo her back to earthly gloom;Oh! rather let me die, or live still lone!My mental eye, that holds her there enshrined,Now paints her wing'd, bright with celestial bloom,Prostrate beneath our mutual Heaven's throne.Wollaston.
Mylove and grief compell'd me to proclaimMy heart's lament, and urged me to conveyThat, were it true, of her I should not sayWho woke alike my song and bosom's flame.For I should comfort find, 'mid this world's shame,To mark her soul's beatified array,To think that He who here had own'd its sway,Doth now within his home its presence claim.And true I comfort find—myself resign'd,I would not woo her back to earthly gloom;Oh! rather let me die, or live still lone!My mental eye, that holds her there enshrined,Now paints her wing'd, bright with celestial bloom,Prostrate beneath our mutual Heaven's throne.
Wollaston.
Thechosen angels, and the spirits blest,Celestial tenants, on that glorious dayMy Lady join'd them, throng'd in bright arrayAround her, with amaze and awe imprest."What splendour, what new beauty stands confestUnto our sight?"—among themselves they say;"No soul, in this vile age, from sinful clayTo our high realms has risen so fair a guest."Delighted to have changed her mortal state,She ranks amid the purest of her kind;And ever and anon she looks behind,To mark my progress and my coming wait;Now my whole thought, my wish to heaven I cast;'Tis Laura's voice I hear, and hence she bids me haste.Nott.
Thechosen angels, and the spirits blest,Celestial tenants, on that glorious dayMy Lady join'd them, throng'd in bright arrayAround her, with amaze and awe imprest."What splendour, what new beauty stands confestUnto our sight?"—among themselves they say;"No soul, in this vile age, from sinful clayTo our high realms has risen so fair a guest."Delighted to have changed her mortal state,She ranks amid the purest of her kind;And ever and anon she looks behind,To mark my progress and my coming wait;Now my whole thought, my wish to heaven I cast;'Tis Laura's voice I hear, and hence she bids me haste.
Nott.
Thechosen angels, and the blest above,Heaven's citizens!—the day when Laura ceasedTo adorn the world, about her thronging press'd,Replete with wonder and with holy love."What sight is this?—what will this beauty prove?"Said they; "for sure no form in charms so dress'd,From yonder globe to this high place of rest,In all the latter age, did e'er remove!"She, pleased and happy with her mansion new,Compares herself with the most perfect there;And now and then she casts a glance to viewIf yet I come, and seems to wish me near.Rise then, my thoughts, to heaven!—vain world, adieu!My Laura calls! her quickening voice I hear!Charlemont.
Thechosen angels, and the blest above,Heaven's citizens!—the day when Laura ceasedTo adorn the world, about her thronging press'd,Replete with wonder and with holy love."What sight is this?—what will this beauty prove?"Said they; "for sure no form in charms so dress'd,From yonder globe to this high place of rest,In all the latter age, did e'er remove!"She, pleased and happy with her mansion new,Compares herself with the most perfect there;And now and then she casts a glance to viewIf yet I come, and seems to wish me near.Rise then, my thoughts, to heaven!—vain world, adieu!My Laura calls! her quickening voice I hear!
Charlemont.
Lady, in bliss who, by our Maker's feet,As suited for thine excellent life alone,Art now enthroned in high and glorious seat,Adorn'd with charms nor pearls nor purple own;O model high and rare of ladies sweet!Now in his face to whom all things are known,Look on my love, with that pure faith replete,As long my verse and truest tears have shown,And know at last my heart on earth to theeWas still as now in heaven, nor wish'd in lifeMore than beneath thine eyes' bright sun to be:Wherefore, to recompense the tedious strife,Which turn'd my liege heart from the world away,Pray that I soon may come with thee to stay.Macgregor.
Lady, in bliss who, by our Maker's feet,As suited for thine excellent life alone,Art now enthroned in high and glorious seat,Adorn'd with charms nor pearls nor purple own;O model high and rare of ladies sweet!Now in his face to whom all things are known,Look on my love, with that pure faith replete,As long my verse and truest tears have shown,And know at last my heart on earth to theeWas still as now in heaven, nor wish'd in lifeMore than beneath thine eyes' bright sun to be:Wherefore, to recompense the tedious strife,Which turn'd my liege heart from the world away,Pray that I soon may come with thee to stay.
Macgregor.
Lady! whose gentle virtues have obtain'dFor thee a dwelling with thy Maker blest,To sit enthroned above, in angels' vest(Whose lustre gold nor purple had attain'd):Ah! thou who here the most exalted reign'd,Now through the eyes of Him who knows each breast,That heart's pure faith and love thou canst attest,Which both my pen and tears alike sustain'd.Thou, knowest, too, my heart was thine on earth,As now it is in heaven; no wish was thereBut to avow thine eyes, its only shrine:Thus to reward the strife which owes its birthTo thee, who won my each affection'd care,Pray God to waft me to his home and thine!Wollaston.
Lady! whose gentle virtues have obtain'dFor thee a dwelling with thy Maker blest,To sit enthroned above, in angels' vest(Whose lustre gold nor purple had attain'd):Ah! thou who here the most exalted reign'd,Now through the eyes of Him who knows each breast,That heart's pure faith and love thou canst attest,Which both my pen and tears alike sustain'd.Thou, knowest, too, my heart was thine on earth,As now it is in heaven; no wish was thereBut to avow thine eyes, its only shrine:Thus to reward the strife which owes its birthTo thee, who won my each affection'd care,Pray God to waft me to his home and thine!
Wollaston.
Thebrightest eyes, the most resplendent faceThat ever shone; and the most radiant hair,With which nor gold nor sunbeam could compare;The sweetest accent, and a smile all grace;Hands, arms, that would e'en motionless abaseThose who to Love the most rebellious were;Fine, nimble feet; a form that would appearLike that of her who first did Eden trace;These fann'd life's spark: now heaven, and all its choirOf angel hosts those kindred charms admire;While lone and darkling I on earth remain.Yet is not comfort fled; she, who can readEach secret of my soul, shall intercede;And I her sainted form behold again.Nott.
Thebrightest eyes, the most resplendent faceThat ever shone; and the most radiant hair,With which nor gold nor sunbeam could compare;The sweetest accent, and a smile all grace;Hands, arms, that would e'en motionless abaseThose who to Love the most rebellious were;Fine, nimble feet; a form that would appearLike that of her who first did Eden trace;These fann'd life's spark: now heaven, and all its choirOf angel hosts those kindred charms admire;While lone and darkling I on earth remain.Yet is not comfort fled; she, who can readEach secret of my soul, shall intercede;And I her sainted form behold again.
Nott.
Yes, from those finest eyes, that face most sweetThat ever shone, and from that loveliest hair,With which nor gold nor sunbeam may compare,That speech with love, that smile with grace replete,From those soft hands, those white arms which defeat.Themselves unmoved, the stoutest hearts that e'erTo Love were rebels; from those feet so fair,From her whole form, for Eden only meet,My spirit took its life—now these delightThe King of Heaven and his angelic train,While, blind and naked, I am left in night.One only balm expect I 'mid my pain—That she, mine every thought who now can see,May win this grace—that I with her may be.Macgregor.
Yes, from those finest eyes, that face most sweetThat ever shone, and from that loveliest hair,With which nor gold nor sunbeam may compare,That speech with love, that smile with grace replete,From those soft hands, those white arms which defeat.Themselves unmoved, the stoutest hearts that e'erTo Love were rebels; from those feet so fair,From her whole form, for Eden only meet,My spirit took its life—now these delightThe King of Heaven and his angelic train,While, blind and naked, I am left in night.One only balm expect I 'mid my pain—That she, mine every thought who now can see,May win this grace—that I with her may be.
Macgregor.
Methinksfrom hour to hour her voice I hear:My Lady calls me! I would fain obey;Within, without, I feel myself decay;And am so alter'd—not with many a year—That to myself a stranger I appear;All my old usual life is put away—Could I but know how long I have to stay!Grant, Heaven, the long-wish'd summons may be near!Oh, blest the day when from this earthly gaolI shall be freed, when burst and broken liesThis mortal guise, so heavy yet so frail,When from this black night my saved spirit flies,Soaring up, up, above the bright serene,Where with my Lord my Lady shall be seen.Macgregor.
Methinksfrom hour to hour her voice I hear:My Lady calls me! I would fain obey;Within, without, I feel myself decay;And am so alter'd—not with many a year—That to myself a stranger I appear;All my old usual life is put away—Could I but know how long I have to stay!Grant, Heaven, the long-wish'd summons may be near!Oh, blest the day when from this earthly gaolI shall be freed, when burst and broken liesThis mortal guise, so heavy yet so frail,When from this black night my saved spirit flies,Soaring up, up, above the bright serene,Where with my Lord my Lady shall be seen.
Macgregor.
Onmy oft-troubled sleep my sacred airSo softly breathes, at last I courage take,To tell her of my past and present ache,Which never in her life my heart did dare.I first that glance so full of love declareWhich served my lifelong torment to awake,Next, how, content and wretched for her sake,Love day by day my tost heart knew to tear.She speaks not, but, with pity's dewy trace,Intently looks on me, and gently sighs,While pure and lustrous tears begem her face;My spirit, which her sorrow fiercely tries,So to behold her weep with anger burns,And freed from slumber to itself returns.Macgregor.
Onmy oft-troubled sleep my sacred airSo softly breathes, at last I courage take,To tell her of my past and present ache,Which never in her life my heart did dare.I first that glance so full of love declareWhich served my lifelong torment to awake,Next, how, content and wretched for her sake,Love day by day my tost heart knew to tear.She speaks not, but, with pity's dewy trace,Intently looks on me, and gently sighs,While pure and lustrous tears begem her face;My spirit, which her sorrow fiercely tries,So to behold her weep with anger burns,And freed from slumber to itself returns.
Macgregor.
Eachday to me seems as a thousand years,That I my dear and faithful star pursue,Who guided me on earth, and guides me tooBy a sure path to life without its tears.For in the world, familiar now, appearsNo snare to tempt; so rare a light and trueShines e'en from heaven my secret conscience through,Of lost time and loved sin the glass it rears.Not that I need the threats of death to dread,(Which He who loved us bore with greater pain)That, firm and constant, I his path should tread:'Tis but a brief while since in every veinOf her he enter'd who my fate has been,Yet troubled not the least her brow serene.Macgregor.
Eachday to me seems as a thousand years,That I my dear and faithful star pursue,Who guided me on earth, and guides me tooBy a sure path to life without its tears.For in the world, familiar now, appearsNo snare to tempt; so rare a light and trueShines e'en from heaven my secret conscience through,Of lost time and loved sin the glass it rears.Not that I need the threats of death to dread,(Which He who loved us bore with greater pain)That, firm and constant, I his path should tread:'Tis but a brief while since in every veinOf her he enter'd who my fate has been,Yet troubled not the least her brow serene.
Macgregor.
Deathcannot make that beauteous face less fair,But that sweet face may lend to death a grace;My spirit's guide! from her each good I trace;Who learns to die, may seek his lesson there.That holy one! who not his blood would spare,But did the dark Tartarean bolts unbrace;He, too, doth from my soul death's terrors chase:Then welcome, death! thy impress I would wear.And linger not! 'tis time that I had fled;Alas! my stay hath little here avail'd,Since she, my Laura blest, resign'd her breath:Life's spring in me hath since that hour lain dead,In her I lived, my life in hers exhaled,The hour she died I felt within me death!Wollaston.
Deathcannot make that beauteous face less fair,But that sweet face may lend to death a grace;My spirit's guide! from her each good I trace;Who learns to die, may seek his lesson there.That holy one! who not his blood would spare,But did the dark Tartarean bolts unbrace;He, too, doth from my soul death's terrors chase:Then welcome, death! thy impress I would wear.And linger not! 'tis time that I had fled;Alas! my stay hath little here avail'd,Since she, my Laura blest, resign'd her breath:Life's spring in me hath since that hour lain dead,In her I lived, my life in hers exhaled,The hour she died I felt within me death!
Wollaston.
Whenshe, the faithful soother of my pain,This life's long weary pilgrimage to cheer,Vouchsafes beside my nightly couch to appear,With her sweet speech attempering reason's strain;O'ercome by tenderness, and terror vain,I cry, "Whence comest thou, O spirit blest?"She from her beauteous breastA branch of laurel and of palm displays,And, answering, thus she says."From th' empyrean seat of holy loveAlone thy sorrows to console I move."In actions, and in words, in humble guiseI speak my thanks, and ask, "How may it beThat thou shouldst know my wretched state?" and she"Thy floods of tears perpetual, and thy sighsBreathed forth unceasing, to high heaven arise.And there disturb thy blissful state serene;So grievous hath it been,That freed from this poor being, I at lastTo a better life have pass'd,Which should have joy'd thee hadst thou loved as wellAs thy sad brow, and sadder numbers tell.""Oh! not thy ills, I but deplore my own,In darkness, and in grief remaining here,Certain that thou hast reach'd the highest sphere,As of a thing that man hath seen and known.Would God and Nature to the world have shownSuch virtue in a young and gentle breast,Were not eternal restThe appointed guerdon of a life so fair?Thou! of the spirits rare,Who, from a course unspotted, pure and high,Are suddenly translated to the sky."But I! how can I cease to weep? forlorn,Without thee nothing, wretched, desolate!Oh, in the cradle had I met my fate,Or at the breast! and not to love been born!"And she: "Why by consuming grief thus worn?Were it not better spread aloft thy wings,And now all mortal things,With these thy sweet and idle fantasies,At their just value prize,And follow me, if true thy tender vows,Gathering henceforth with me these honour'd boughs?"Then answering her:—"Fain would I thou shouldst sayWhat these two verdant branches signify.""Methinks," she says, "thou may'st thyself reply,Whose pen has graced the one by many a lay.The palm shows victory; and in youth's bright dayI overcame the world, and my weak heart:The triumph mine in part,Glory to Him who made my weakness strength!And thou, yet turn at length!'Gainst other powers his gracious aid implore,That we may be with Him thy trial o'er!""Are these the crisped locks, and links of goldThat bind me still? And these the radiant eyes.To me the Sun?" "Err not with the unwise,Nor think," she says, "as they are wont. BeholdIn me a spirit, among the blest enroll'd;Thou seek'st what hath long been earth again:Yet to relieve thy pain'Tis given me thus to appear, ere I resumeThat beauty from the tomb,More loved, that I, severe in pity, winThy soul with mine to Heaven, from death and sin."I weep; and she my cheek,Soft sighing, with her own fair hand will dry;And, gently chiding, speakIn tones of power to rive hard rocks in twain;Then vanishing, sleep follows in her train.Dacre.
Whenshe, the faithful soother of my pain,This life's long weary pilgrimage to cheer,Vouchsafes beside my nightly couch to appear,With her sweet speech attempering reason's strain;O'ercome by tenderness, and terror vain,I cry, "Whence comest thou, O spirit blest?"She from her beauteous breastA branch of laurel and of palm displays,And, answering, thus she says."From th' empyrean seat of holy loveAlone thy sorrows to console I move."
In actions, and in words, in humble guiseI speak my thanks, and ask, "How may it beThat thou shouldst know my wretched state?" and she"Thy floods of tears perpetual, and thy sighsBreathed forth unceasing, to high heaven arise.And there disturb thy blissful state serene;So grievous hath it been,That freed from this poor being, I at lastTo a better life have pass'd,Which should have joy'd thee hadst thou loved as wellAs thy sad brow, and sadder numbers tell."
"Oh! not thy ills, I but deplore my own,In darkness, and in grief remaining here,Certain that thou hast reach'd the highest sphere,As of a thing that man hath seen and known.Would God and Nature to the world have shownSuch virtue in a young and gentle breast,Were not eternal restThe appointed guerdon of a life so fair?Thou! of the spirits rare,Who, from a course unspotted, pure and high,Are suddenly translated to the sky.
"But I! how can I cease to weep? forlorn,Without thee nothing, wretched, desolate!Oh, in the cradle had I met my fate,Or at the breast! and not to love been born!"And she: "Why by consuming grief thus worn?Were it not better spread aloft thy wings,And now all mortal things,With these thy sweet and idle fantasies,At their just value prize,And follow me, if true thy tender vows,Gathering henceforth with me these honour'd boughs?"
Then answering her:—"Fain would I thou shouldst sayWhat these two verdant branches signify.""Methinks," she says, "thou may'st thyself reply,Whose pen has graced the one by many a lay.The palm shows victory; and in youth's bright dayI overcame the world, and my weak heart:The triumph mine in part,Glory to Him who made my weakness strength!And thou, yet turn at length!'Gainst other powers his gracious aid implore,That we may be with Him thy trial o'er!"
"Are these the crisped locks, and links of goldThat bind me still? And these the radiant eyes.To me the Sun?" "Err not with the unwise,Nor think," she says, "as they are wont. BeholdIn me a spirit, among the blest enroll'd;Thou seek'st what hath long been earth again:Yet to relieve thy pain'Tis given me thus to appear, ere I resumeThat beauty from the tomb,More loved, that I, severe in pity, winThy soul with mine to Heaven, from death and sin."
I weep; and she my cheek,Soft sighing, with her own fair hand will dry;And, gently chiding, speakIn tones of power to rive hard rocks in twain;Then vanishing, sleep follows in her train.
Dacre.
Longhad I suffer'd, till—to combat moreIn strength, in hope too sunk—at last beforeImpartial Reason's seat,Whence she presides our nobler nature o'er,I summon'd my old tyrant, stern and sweet;There, groaning 'neath a weary weight of grief,With fear and horror stung,Like one who dreads to die and prays relief,My plea I open'd thus: "When life was young,I, weakly, placed my peace within his power,And nothing from that hourSave wrong I've met; so many and so greatThe torments I have borne,That my once infinite patience is outworn,And my life worthless grown is held in very hate!"Thus sadly has my time till now dragg'd byIn flames and anguish: I have left each wayOf honour, use, and joy,This my most cruel flatterer to obey.What wit so rare such language to employThat yet may free me from this wretched thrall.Or even my complaint,So great and just, against this ingrate paint?O little sweet! much bitterness and gall!How have you changed my life, so tranquil, ereWith the false witchery blind,That alone lured me to his amorous snare!If right I judge, a mindI boasted once with higher feelings rife,—But he destroy'd my peace, he plunged me in this strife!"Less for myself to care, through him I've grown.And less my God to honour than I ought:Through him my every thoughtOn a frail beauty blindly have I thrown;In this my counsellor he stood alone,Still prompt with cruel aid so to provokeMy young desire, that IHoped respite from his harsh and heavy yoke.But, ah! what boots—though changing time sweep by,If from this changeless passion nought can save—A genius proud and high?Or what Heaven's other envied gifts to have,If still I groan the slaveOf the fierce despot whom I here accuse,Who turns e'en my sad life to his triumphant use?"'Twas he who made me desert countries seek,Wild tribes and nations dangerous, manners rude,My path with thorns he strew'd,And every error that betrays the weak.Valley and mountain, marsh, and stream, and sea,On every side his snares were set for me.In June December came,With present peril and sharp toil the same;Alone they left me never, neither he,Nor she, whom I so fled, my other foe:Untimely in my tomb,If by some painful death not yet laid low.My safety from such doomHeaven's gracious pity, not this tyrant, deigns,Who feeds upon my grief, and profits in my pains!"No quiet hour, since first I own'd his reign,I've known, nor hope to know: repose is fledFrom my unfriendly bed,Nor herb nor spells can bring it back again.By fraud and force he gain'd and guards his powerO'er every sense; soundeth from steeple near,By day, by night, the hour,I feel his hand in every stroke I hear.Never did cankerworm fair tree devour,As he my heart, wherein he, gnawing, lurks,And, there, my ruin works.Hence my past martyrdom and tears arise,My present speech, these sighs,Which tear and tire myself, and haply thee,—Judge then between us both, thou knowest him and me!"With fierce reproach my adversary rose:"Lady," he spoke, "the rebel to a closeIs heard at last, the truthReceive from me which he has shrunk to tell:Big words to bandy, specious lies to sell,He plies right well the vile trade of his youth,Freed from whose shame, to shareMy easy pleasures, by my friendly care,From each false passion which had work'd him ill,Kept safe and pure, laments he, graceless, stillThe sweet life he has gain'd?And, blindly, thus his fortune dares he blame,Who owes his very fameTo me, his genius who sublimed, sustain'd,In the proud flight to which he, else, had dared not aim?"Well knows he how, in history's every page,The laurell'd chief, the monarch on his throne,The poet and the sage,Favourites of fortune, or for virtue known,Were cursed by evil stars, in loves debased,Soulless and vile, their hearts, their fame, to waste:While I, for him alone,From all the lovely ladies of the earth,Chose one, so graced with beauty and with worth,The eternal sun her equal ne'er beheld.Such charm was in her life,Such virtue in her speech with music rife,Their wondrous power dispell'dEach vain and vicious fancy from his heart,—A foe I am indeed, if this a foeman's part!"Such was my anger, these my hate and slights,Than all which others could bestow more sweet;Evil for good I meet,If thus ingratitude my grace requites.So high, upon my wings, he soar'd in fame,To hear his song, fair dames and gentle knightsIn throngs delighted came.Among the gifted spirits of our timeHis name conspicuous shines; in every climeAdmired, approved, his strains an echo find.Such is he, but for meA mere court flatterer who was doom'd to be,Unmark'd amid his kind,Till, in my school, exalted and made knownBy her, who, of her sex, stood peerless and alone!"If my great service more there need to tell,I have so fenced and fortified him well,That his pure mind on noughtOf gross or grovelling now can brook to dwell;Modest and sensitive, in deed, word, thought,Her captive from his youth, she so her fairAnd virtuous image press'dUpon his heart, it left its likeness there:Whate'er his life has shown of good or great,In aim or action, he from us possess'd.Never was midnight dreamSo full of error as to us his hate!For Heaven's and man's esteemIf still he keep, the praise is due to us,Whom in its thankless pride his blind rage censures thus!"In fine, 'twas I, my past love to exceed,Who heavenward fix'd his hope, who gave him wingsTo fly from mortal things,Which to eternal bliss the path impede;With his own sense, that, seeing how in herVirtues and charms so great and rare combined,A holy pride might stirAnd to the Great First Cause exalt his mind,(In his own verse confess'd this truth we see,)While that dear lady whom I sent to beThe grace, the guard, and guideOf his vain life"—But here a heart-deep groanI sudden gave, and cried,"Yes! sent and snatch'd her from me." He replied,"Not I, but Heaven above, which will'd her for its own!"At length before that high tribunal each—With anxious trembling I, while in his mienWas conscious triumph seen—With earnest prayer concluded thus his speech:"Speak, noble lady! we thy judgment wait."She then with equal air:"It glads me to have heard your keen debate,But in a cause so great,More time and thought it needs just verdict to declare!"Macgregor.
Longhad I suffer'd, till—to combat moreIn strength, in hope too sunk—at last beforeImpartial Reason's seat,Whence she presides our nobler nature o'er,I summon'd my old tyrant, stern and sweet;There, groaning 'neath a weary weight of grief,With fear and horror stung,Like one who dreads to die and prays relief,My plea I open'd thus: "When life was young,I, weakly, placed my peace within his power,And nothing from that hourSave wrong I've met; so many and so greatThe torments I have borne,That my once infinite patience is outworn,And my life worthless grown is held in very hate!
"Thus sadly has my time till now dragg'd byIn flames and anguish: I have left each wayOf honour, use, and joy,This my most cruel flatterer to obey.What wit so rare such language to employThat yet may free me from this wretched thrall.Or even my complaint,So great and just, against this ingrate paint?O little sweet! much bitterness and gall!How have you changed my life, so tranquil, ereWith the false witchery blind,That alone lured me to his amorous snare!If right I judge, a mindI boasted once with higher feelings rife,—But he destroy'd my peace, he plunged me in this strife!
"Less for myself to care, through him I've grown.And less my God to honour than I ought:Through him my every thoughtOn a frail beauty blindly have I thrown;In this my counsellor he stood alone,Still prompt with cruel aid so to provokeMy young desire, that IHoped respite from his harsh and heavy yoke.But, ah! what boots—though changing time sweep by,If from this changeless passion nought can save—A genius proud and high?Or what Heaven's other envied gifts to have,If still I groan the slaveOf the fierce despot whom I here accuse,Who turns e'en my sad life to his triumphant use?
"'Twas he who made me desert countries seek,Wild tribes and nations dangerous, manners rude,My path with thorns he strew'd,And every error that betrays the weak.Valley and mountain, marsh, and stream, and sea,On every side his snares were set for me.In June December came,With present peril and sharp toil the same;Alone they left me never, neither he,Nor she, whom I so fled, my other foe:Untimely in my tomb,If by some painful death not yet laid low.My safety from such doomHeaven's gracious pity, not this tyrant, deigns,Who feeds upon my grief, and profits in my pains!
"No quiet hour, since first I own'd his reign,I've known, nor hope to know: repose is fledFrom my unfriendly bed,Nor herb nor spells can bring it back again.By fraud and force he gain'd and guards his powerO'er every sense; soundeth from steeple near,By day, by night, the hour,I feel his hand in every stroke I hear.Never did cankerworm fair tree devour,As he my heart, wherein he, gnawing, lurks,And, there, my ruin works.Hence my past martyrdom and tears arise,My present speech, these sighs,Which tear and tire myself, and haply thee,—Judge then between us both, thou knowest him and me!"
With fierce reproach my adversary rose:"Lady," he spoke, "the rebel to a closeIs heard at last, the truthReceive from me which he has shrunk to tell:Big words to bandy, specious lies to sell,He plies right well the vile trade of his youth,Freed from whose shame, to shareMy easy pleasures, by my friendly care,From each false passion which had work'd him ill,Kept safe and pure, laments he, graceless, stillThe sweet life he has gain'd?And, blindly, thus his fortune dares he blame,Who owes his very fameTo me, his genius who sublimed, sustain'd,In the proud flight to which he, else, had dared not aim?
"Well knows he how, in history's every page,The laurell'd chief, the monarch on his throne,The poet and the sage,Favourites of fortune, or for virtue known,Were cursed by evil stars, in loves debased,Soulless and vile, their hearts, their fame, to waste:While I, for him alone,From all the lovely ladies of the earth,Chose one, so graced with beauty and with worth,The eternal sun her equal ne'er beheld.Such charm was in her life,Such virtue in her speech with music rife,Their wondrous power dispell'dEach vain and vicious fancy from his heart,—A foe I am indeed, if this a foeman's part!
"Such was my anger, these my hate and slights,Than all which others could bestow more sweet;Evil for good I meet,If thus ingratitude my grace requites.So high, upon my wings, he soar'd in fame,To hear his song, fair dames and gentle knightsIn throngs delighted came.Among the gifted spirits of our timeHis name conspicuous shines; in every climeAdmired, approved, his strains an echo find.Such is he, but for meA mere court flatterer who was doom'd to be,Unmark'd amid his kind,Till, in my school, exalted and made knownBy her, who, of her sex, stood peerless and alone!
"If my great service more there need to tell,I have so fenced and fortified him well,That his pure mind on noughtOf gross or grovelling now can brook to dwell;Modest and sensitive, in deed, word, thought,Her captive from his youth, she so her fairAnd virtuous image press'dUpon his heart, it left its likeness there:Whate'er his life has shown of good or great,In aim or action, he from us possess'd.Never was midnight dreamSo full of error as to us his hate!For Heaven's and man's esteemIf still he keep, the praise is due to us,Whom in its thankless pride his blind rage censures thus!
"In fine, 'twas I, my past love to exceed,Who heavenward fix'd his hope, who gave him wingsTo fly from mortal things,Which to eternal bliss the path impede;With his own sense, that, seeing how in herVirtues and charms so great and rare combined,A holy pride might stirAnd to the Great First Cause exalt his mind,(In his own verse confess'd this truth we see,)While that dear lady whom I sent to beThe grace, the guard, and guideOf his vain life"—But here a heart-deep groanI sudden gave, and cried,"Yes! sent and snatch'd her from me." He replied,"Not I, but Heaven above, which will'd her for its own!"
At length before that high tribunal each—With anxious trembling I, while in his mienWas conscious triumph seen—With earnest prayer concluded thus his speech:"Speak, noble lady! we thy judgment wait."She then with equal air:"It glads me to have heard your keen debate,But in a cause so great,More time and thought it needs just verdict to declare!"
Macgregor.
I citedonce t' appear before the noble queen,That ought to guide each mortal life that in this world is seen,That pleasant cruel foe that robbeth hearts of ease,And now doth frown, and then doth fawn, and can both grieve and please;And there, as gold in fire full fined to each intent,Charged with fear, and terror eke I did myself present,As one that doubted death, and yet did justice crave,And thus began t' unfold my cause in hope some help to have."Madam, in tender youth I enter'd first this reign,Where other sweet I never felt, than grief and great disdain;And eke so sundry kinds of torments did endure.As life I loathed, and death desired my cursèd case to cure;And thus my woeful days unto this hour have pass'dIn smoky sighs and scalding tears, my wearied life to waste;O Lord! what graces great I fled, and eke refusedTo serve this cruel crafty Sire that doubtless trust abused.""What wit can use such words to argue and debate,What tongue express the full effect of mine unhappy state;What hand with pen can paint t' uncipher this deceit;What heart so hard that would not yield that once hath seen his bate;What great and grievous wrongs, what threats of ill success,What single sweet, mingled with mass of double bitterness.With what unpleasant pangs, with what an hoard of pains,Hath he acquainted my green years by his false pleasant trains.""Who by resistless power hath forced me sue his dance,That if I be not much abused had found much betterAnd when I most resolved to lead most quiet life, chance;He spoil'd me of discordless state, and thrust me in truceless strife.He hath bewitch'd me so that God the less I served,And due respect unto myself the further from me swerv'd;He hath the love of one so painted in my thought,That other thing I can none mind, nor care for as I ought.And all this comes from him, both counsel and the cause.That whet my young desire so much to th' honour of his laws."Harington MS.
I citedonce t' appear before the noble queen,That ought to guide each mortal life that in this world is seen,That pleasant cruel foe that robbeth hearts of ease,And now doth frown, and then doth fawn, and can both grieve and please;And there, as gold in fire full fined to each intent,Charged with fear, and terror eke I did myself present,As one that doubted death, and yet did justice crave,And thus began t' unfold my cause in hope some help to have.
"Madam, in tender youth I enter'd first this reign,Where other sweet I never felt, than grief and great disdain;And eke so sundry kinds of torments did endure.As life I loathed, and death desired my cursèd case to cure;And thus my woeful days unto this hour have pass'dIn smoky sighs and scalding tears, my wearied life to waste;O Lord! what graces great I fled, and eke refusedTo serve this cruel crafty Sire that doubtless trust abused."
"What wit can use such words to argue and debate,What tongue express the full effect of mine unhappy state;What hand with pen can paint t' uncipher this deceit;What heart so hard that would not yield that once hath seen his bate;What great and grievous wrongs, what threats of ill success,What single sweet, mingled with mass of double bitterness.With what unpleasant pangs, with what an hoard of pains,Hath he acquainted my green years by his false pleasant trains."
"Who by resistless power hath forced me sue his dance,That if I be not much abused had found much betterAnd when I most resolved to lead most quiet life, chance;He spoil'd me of discordless state, and thrust me in truceless strife.He hath bewitch'd me so that God the less I served,And due respect unto myself the further from me swerv'd;He hath the love of one so painted in my thought,That other thing I can none mind, nor care for as I ought.And all this comes from him, both counsel and the cause.That whet my young desire so much to th' honour of his laws."
Harington MS.
Myfaithful mirror oft to me has told—My weary spirit and my shrivell'd skinMy failing powers to prove it all begin—"Deceive thyself no longer, thou art old."Man is in all by Nature best controll'd,And if with her we struggle, time creeps in;At the sad truth, on fire as waters win,A long and heavy sleep is off me roll'd;And I see clearly our vain life depart,That more than once our being cannot be:Her voice sounds ever in my inmost heart.Who now from her fair earthly frame is free:She walk'd the world so peerless and alone,Its fame and lustre all with her are flown.Macgregor.
Myfaithful mirror oft to me has told—My weary spirit and my shrivell'd skinMy failing powers to prove it all begin—"Deceive thyself no longer, thou art old."Man is in all by Nature best controll'd,And if with her we struggle, time creeps in;At the sad truth, on fire as waters win,A long and heavy sleep is off me roll'd;And I see clearly our vain life depart,That more than once our being cannot be:Her voice sounds ever in my inmost heart.Who now from her fair earthly frame is free:She walk'd the world so peerless and alone,Its fame and lustre all with her are flown.
Macgregor.
Themirror'd friend—my changing form hath read.My every power's incipient decay—My wearied soul—alike, in warning say"Thyself no more deceive, thy youth hath fled."'Tis ever best to be by Nature led,We strive with her, and Death makes us his prey;At that dread thought, as flames the waters stay,The dream is gone my life hath sadly fed.I wake to feel how soon existence flies:Once known, 'tis gone, and never to return.Still vibrates in my heart the thrilling toneOf her, who now her beauteous shrine defies:But she, who here to rival, none could learn,Hath robb'd her sex, and with its fame hath flown.Wollaston.
Themirror'd friend—my changing form hath read.My every power's incipient decay—My wearied soul—alike, in warning say"Thyself no more deceive, thy youth hath fled."'Tis ever best to be by Nature led,We strive with her, and Death makes us his prey;At that dread thought, as flames the waters stay,The dream is gone my life hath sadly fed.I wake to feel how soon existence flies:Once known, 'tis gone, and never to return.Still vibrates in my heart the thrilling toneOf her, who now her beauteous shrine defies:But she, who here to rival, none could learn,Hath robb'd her sex, and with its fame hath flown.
Wollaston.
Sooften on the wings of thought I flyUp to heaven's blissful seats, that I appearAs one of those whose treasure is lodged there,The rent veil of mortality thrown by.A pleasing chillness thrills my heart, while IListen to her voice, who bids me paleness wear—"Ah! now, my friend, I love thee, now revere,For changed thy face, thy manners," doth she cry.She leads me to her Lord: and then I bow,Preferring humble prayer, He would allowThat I his glorious face, and hers might see.Thus He replies: "Thy destiny's secure;To stay some twenty, or some ten years more,Is but a little space, though long it seems to thee."Nott.
Sooften on the wings of thought I flyUp to heaven's blissful seats, that I appearAs one of those whose treasure is lodged there,The rent veil of mortality thrown by.A pleasing chillness thrills my heart, while IListen to her voice, who bids me paleness wear—"Ah! now, my friend, I love thee, now revere,For changed thy face, thy manners," doth she cry.She leads me to her Lord: and then I bow,Preferring humble prayer, He would allowThat I his glorious face, and hers might see.Thus He replies: "Thy destiny's secure;To stay some twenty, or some ten years more,Is but a little space, though long it seems to thee."
Nott.