FREDERIC. Time, Night. Scene, The Woods. WHERE shall I turn me? whither shall I bend Beneath their palsied burden? Is there aught Stamp'd with the brand of Vice and Infamy, Why should the felon Frederic shrink from Death? Death! Where the magic in that empty name There are no terrors to surround the Grave, Why then this panting of the fearful heart? Shrink from the best Physician's certain aid? Oh, it were better far to lie me down Here on this cold damp earth, till some wild beast Seize on his willing victim! If to die Were all, 'twere sweet indeed to rest my head poor Of lewdest revelry has inly yearn'd For peace. MY FATHER! I will call on thee, Pour to thy mercy-seat my earnest prayer, And wait thy righteous will, resign'd of soul. O thoughts of comfort! how the afflicted heart, Tired with the tempest of its passions, rests On you with holy hope! The hollow howl Of yonder harmless tenant of the woods Comes with no terror to the sober'd sense. If I have sinn'd against mankind, on them Be that past sin; they made me what I was. In these extremest climes can Want no more Urge to the deeds of darkness, and at length Here shall I rest. What though my hut be poor— The rains descend not through its humble roof:... Would I were there again! The night is cold; And what if in my wanderings I should rouse The savage from his thicket! Hark! the gun! And lo, the fire of safety! I shall reach My little hut again! again by toil Force from the stubborn earth my sustenance, And quick-ear'd guilt will never start alarm'd Amid the well-earn'd meal. This felon's garb .. Will it not shield me from the winds of Heaven? And what could purple more? O strengthen me, Eternal One, in this serener state! Cleanse thou mine heart, so PENITENCE and FAITH Shall heal my soul, and my last days be peace. 1794. |