Defers his duty till the day of prayer: PHOEBE DAWSON. Two summers since, I saw, at Lammas fair, They wish'd her well, whom yet they wish'd away. At length, the youth, ordain'd to move her breast, consent. Now, through the lane, up hill, and cross the (Seen by but few, and blushing to be seenDejected, thoughtful, anxious, and afraid,) Led by the lover, walk'd the silent maid: Slow through the meadows rov'd they many a mile, Toy'd by each bank and trifled at each stile; Where, as he painted every blissful view, And highly colour'd what he strongly drew, The pensive damsel, prone to tender fears, Dimm'd the false prospect with prophetic tears.Thus pass'd th'allotted hours, till lingering late, The lover loiter'd at the master's gate; There he pronounc'd adieu! and yet would stay, Till chidden-sooth'd-intreated-forc'd away; He would of coldness, though indulg'd, complain, And oft retire and oft return again; When, if his teazing vex'd her gentle mind, The grief assum'd, compell'd her to be kind! For he would proof of plighted kindness crave, That she resented first and then forgave, And to his grief and penance yielded more, Than his presumption had requir'd before.- Lo! now with red rent cloak and bonnet black, And torn green gown loose hanging at her back, One who an infant in her arms sustains, And seems in patience striving with her pains; But nearer cause, her anxious soul alarms. But who this child of weakness, want and care? If present, railing, till he saw her pain'd; -Yes, turn again; Then speed to happier scenes thy way, When thou hast view'd, what yet remain, The ruins of Sir Eustace Grey, The sport of madness, misery's prey: But he will no historian need, His cares, his crimes will he display, And show (as one from frenzy freed) The proud-lost mind, the rash-done deed. That cell to him is Greyling Hall:Approach; he'll bid thee welcome there; Will sometimes for his servant call, And sometimes point the vacant chair: He can, with free and easy air, Appear attentive and polite; Can veil his woes in manners fair, And pity with respect excite. Patient. Who comes?-Approach!-'tis kindly done:- Who cannot to their ease attend, Physician. Less warmth, Sir Eustace, or we go. Patient. See! I am calm as infant-love, A very child, but one of woe, Whom you should pity, not reprove:But men at ease, who never strove With passions wild, will calmly show, How soon we may their ills remove, And masters of their madness grow. Some twenty years I think are gone,(Time flies, I know not how, away,) The sun upon no happier shone, Nor prouder man, than Eustace Grey. Was nobly form'd, as man might be; He had a frank and pleasant look, A cheerful eye and accent bland; His very speech and manner spoke The generous heart, the open hand; About him all was gay, or grand, He had the praise of great and small; He bought, improv'd, projected, plann'd, And reign'd a prince at Greyling Hall. My Lady!-she was all we love; All praise (to speak her worth) is faint; Her manners show'd the yielding dove, Her morals, the seraphic saint: She never breath'd nor look'd complaint; No equal upon earth had she:Now, what is this fair thing I paint? Alas! as all that live, shall be. There was, beside, a gallant youth, It made me proud-it made me mad!— There were two cherub-things beside, But I deserv'd; for all that time, When I was lov'd, admir'd, caress'd, I never then my God address'd, I doubted:-fool I was to doubt! In his large view, should pass me by. Thus blest with children, friend, and wife, And Heaven beheld its deep'ning stain, Eternal justice I forgot, And mercy sought not to obtain. Come near, I'll softly speak the rest!— Alas! 'tis known to all the crowd, Her guilty love was all confess'd; And his, who so much truth avow'd, My faithless friend's.—In pleasure proud I sat, when these curs'd tidings came; Their guilt, their flight was told aloud, And envy smil'd to hear my shame! I call'd on Vengeance; at the word She came :-Can I the deed forget? I held the sword, th' accursed sword, The blood of his false heart made wet: And that fair victim paid her debt, She pin'd, she died, she loath'd to live;I saw her dying-see her yet: Fair fallen thing! my rage forgive! Those cherubs still, my life to bless, Were left could I my fears remove, Sad fears that check'd each fond caress, And poison'd all parental love? Yet that with jealous feelings strove, And would at last have won my will, Had I not, wretch! been doom'd to prove Th' extremes of mortal good and ill. In youth! health! joy! in beauty's pride! And I was curs'd-as I am now- Storms!-not that clouds embattled make, When they afflict this earthly globe; But such as with their terrors shake Man's breast, and to the bottom probe; They make the hypocrite disrobe, They try us all, if false or true; For this, one devil had pow'r on Job; And I was long the slave of two. Physician. Peace, peace, my friend; these subjects fly; Collect thy thoughts-go calmly on.— Patient. And shall I then the fact deny? I was, thou know'st,-I was begone, In what I builded, planted, bought! Demons his guides, and death his doom!" Then was I cast from out my state; Two fiends of darkness led my way; They wak'd me early, watch'd me late, My dread by night, my plague by day! Oh! I was made their sport, their play, Through many a stormy troubled year; And how they us'd their passive prey, Is sad to tell:-but you shall hear. And first, before they sent me forth, Through this unpitying world to run, They robb'd Sir Eustace of his worth, Lands, manors, lordships, every one; So was that gracious man undone, Was spurn'd as vile, was scorn'd as poor, Whom every former friend would shun, And menials drove from every door. Then those ill-favour'd Ones, whom none And with resistless terror, drew. Upon that boundless plain, below, The setting sun's last rays were shed, And gave a mild and sober glow, Where all were still, asleep or dead; Vast ruins in the midst were spread, Pillars and pediments sublime, Where the grey moss had form'd a bed, And cloth'd the crumbling spoils of time. There was I fix'd, I know not how, Condemn'd for untold years to stay: Yet years were not;-one dreadful Now Endur'd no change of night or day; The same mild evening's sleeping ray Shone softly-solemn and serene, And all that time, I gaz'd away, The setting sun's sad rays were seen. At length a moment's sleep stole on, Again came my commission'd foes; Again through sea and land we're gone, No peace, no respite, no repose: Above the dark broad sea we rose, We ran through bleak and frozen land; I had no strength, their strength t' oppose, An infant in a giant's hand. They plac'd me where those streamers play, Those nimble beams of brilliant light; It would the stoutest heart dismay, To see, to feel, that dreadful sight: So swift, so pure, so cold, so bright, They pierc'd my frame with icy wound, And all that half-year's polar night, Those dancing streamers_wrapt me round. Slowly that darkness pass'd away, When down upon the earth I fell,— Nor feet but mine were wanderers there. Their watchmen stare, and stand aghast, The watch-dog shrinks and fears to bark; A wide sepulchral ground I mark, And on a tombstone place me down. What monuments of mighty dead! What tombs of various kinds are found! And stones erect their shadows shed On humble graves, with wickers bound; Some risen fresh, above the ground, Some level with the native clay, What sleeping millions wait the sound, "Arise, ye dead, and come away!" Alas! they stay not for that call; Spare me this woe! ye Demons spare!- Yes! I have felt all man can feel, Till he shall pay his nature's debt; Ills that no hope has strength to heal, No mind the comfort to forget: Whatever cares the heart can fret, The spirits wear, the temper gall, Woe, want, dread, anguish, all beset My sinful soul!-together all! Those fiends upon a shaking fen Fix'd me in dark tempestuous night; There flock'd the fowl in wint'ry flight; It shone upon a field of snow. They hung me on a bough, so small, The rook could build her nest no higher; But drown with their returning tide; Of cliffs, and held the rambling brier; And (to complete my woes) I've ran And pick'd the dunghill's spoil for bread; I've dreaded all the guilty dread, And done what they would fear to do. On sand where ebbs and flows the flood, When the swift waves came rolling by; I sobb'd convuls'd, then cast mine eye And then, my dreams were such as nought And thrust into that horrid place, Doom'd to dismay, disgrace, despair. Harmless I was; yet hunted down For trampling on the pit of hell. XXI. Then came of every race the mingled swarm; And in, the buskin'd hunters of the deer, And, beating with his war-club cadence strong, XXIII. Calm, opposite the Christian father rose. XXIV. Short time is now for gratulating speech; XXV. Past was the flight, and welcome seem'd the tow'r, The lofty summit of that mountain green; [scene. XXVI. A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun, The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of mov On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclos'd, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wid alarm! XXVII. But short that contemplation-sad and short The pause to bid each much-lov'd scene adieu! Beneath the very shadow of the fort, [dew; Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near?-yet there, with lust of murd'rous deeds, Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view, The ambush'd foeman's eye-his volley speeds, And Albert-Albert-falls! the dear old father bleeds! XXVIII. And tranc'd in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound, These drops?-Oh God! the life-blood is her own; And falt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrownWeep not, O Love!'-she cries, to see me bleed'Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone 'Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed 'These wounds;—yet thee to leave is death, is denti indeed. 6 XXXI. "Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth' And thee, more lov'd, than aught beneath the sun, If I had liv'd to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge;-but shall there then be none, 'In future times--no gentle little one, To elasp thy neck, and look, resembling me? Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run, 'A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding th |