 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
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ALMERIA;
OR, THE PENITENT.
Withdrawn from all temptations that entice,
The frauds of fashion, and the snares of vice,
From all that can inspire unchaste delight,
To my dear, bleeding family, I write;
But oh! my pen the tender task denies;
And all the daughter rushes to my eyes.
Oft as the paper to my hand I brought,
My hand still trembled from the shock of thought:
Sighs interrupt the story of my woe,
My blushes burn me, and my tears o'erflow;
But nature now insists upon her claim,
Strikes the fine nerve, and gives me up to shame.
No more the anxious wish can I restrain,
No longer silent can your child remain;
Write—write—I must, my hopes, my fears declare,
And try, once more, to win a father's care.
Ah! scorn not then, Almeria's mournful verse,
Bestow thy blessing, and revoke thy curse;
Give to a daughter's wrongs one parent's sigh,
Nor thou, my mother, her last prayer deny.
The frauds of fashion, and the snares of vice,
From all that can inspire unchaste delight,
To my dear, bleeding family, I write;
But oh! my pen the tender task denies;
And all the daughter rushes to my eyes.
Oft as the paper to my hand I brought,
My hand still trembled from the shock of thought:
Sighs interrupt the story of my woe,
My blushes burn me, and my tears o'erflow;
But nature now insists upon her claim,
Strikes the fine nerve, and gives me up to shame.
No more the anxious wish can I restrain,
No longer silent can your child remain;
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And try, once more, to win a father's care.
Ah! scorn not then, Almeria's mournful verse,
Bestow thy blessing, and revoke thy curse;
Give to a daughter's wrongs one parent's sigh,
Nor thou, my mother, her last prayer deny.
Yet where, oh where, shall I the tale begin,
Oh! where conclude the narrative of sin?
How each dire circumstance of guilt disclose,
Unload my breast, and open all its woes?
How, to an injur'd parent, shall I tell
The arts by which I stray'd, by which I fell?
No common language can the scenes express,
Where every line should mark extreme distress;
Rotine of words, unequal all, we find
To paint the feelings of a wounded mind:
'Tis not the scribbler's vein, the songster's art,
Nor the wild genius of a vacant heart,
'Tis not the lines that musically flow
To mark the poet's visionary woe;
Nor all the frolics of the tuneful tribe,
Can such a mighty grief as mine describe.
Oh! where conclude the narrative of sin?
How each dire circumstance of guilt disclose,
Unload my breast, and open all its woes?
How, to an injur'd parent, shall I tell
The arts by which I stray'd, by which I fell?
No common language can the scenes express,
Where every line should mark extreme distress;
Rotine of words, unequal all, we find
To paint the feelings of a wounded mind:
'Tis not the scribbler's vein, the songster's art,
Nor the wild genius of a vacant heart,
'Tis not the lines that musically flow
To mark the poet's visionary woe;
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Can such a mighty grief as mine describe.
Full oft hath scorpion fancy to my view
Imag'd each anguish that a parent knew;
At midnight's still and searching hour she came,
Glar'd round my bed, and chill'd my soul with shame,
Each black idea crouded in my sight,
And gloom'd a chaos on the balmy night.
Imag'd each anguish that a parent knew;
At midnight's still and searching hour she came,
Glar'd round my bed, and chill'd my soul with shame,
Each black idea crouded in my sight,
And gloom'd a chaos on the balmy night.
“Behold, she said, on the damp bed of earth,
Th' unhappy man behold, who gave thee birth;
Behold him roll in dust his silver hair,
While on each muscle sits intense despair;
See how the passions vary in his face,
Tear his old frame, and testify disgrace;
Retir'd from home, in silence to complain
To the pale moon, the veteran tells his pain;
Now sinks oppress'd, now sudden starts away,
Abhors the night, yet sickens at the day.
And see, thou guilty daughter! see, and mourn
The whelming grief that waits thy sire's return!
Beneath some black'ning yew's sepulchral gloom,
Where pensive Sorrow seems to court the tomb,
Where tenfold shades repel the light of day,
And ghostly footsteps seem to press the way.
Bent to the ground by mis'ry, and by years,
View thy pale bleeding mother bath'd in tears;
Her look disorder'd, and her air all wild,
She beats the breast that fed a worthless child;
And oh! she cries—
Oh had the fostering milk to poison turn'd,
Some ague shiver'd, or some fever burn'd;
Had death, cold death, befriended on the morn,
In which these eyes beheld a daughter born;
Or had th' Eternal, seal'd her eyes in night,
Ere she the barrier knew 'twixt wrong and right,
Ne'er had these curses then assail'd my head—
Why spring such torments from a lawful bed!
Now, melted, soften'd, gentler she complains,
Rage ebbs away, the tide of love remains:
Then how th' affecting tears each other trace,
Down the dear furrows of her matron face;
But still the anxious mother brings to light,
Scenes of past joy, and innocent delight;
Calls to remembrance each infantine bliss,
The cradle's rapture, and the baby's kiss;
Each throbbing hope, that caught th' embrace sincere,
With every joy that rose in every tear;
The beauteous prospect brightning every day,
The father's fondling, and the mother's play.
Yet soon she finds again the sad reverse,
Till harrass'd nature sinks beneath its curse;
Again more fierce—more mad she rends her frame,
And loudly brands Almeria with her shame!”
Here paus'd, and shrunk, the vision from my view,
But Conscience colour'd, as the shade withdrew:
Pierc'd to the heart, in agony I lay,
And, all confusion, rose with rising day,
Th' unhappy man behold, who gave thee birth;
Behold him roll in dust his silver hair,
While on each muscle sits intense despair;
See how the passions vary in his face,
Tear his old frame, and testify disgrace;
Retir'd from home, in silence to complain
To the pale moon, the veteran tells his pain;
Now sinks oppress'd, now sudden starts away,
Abhors the night, yet sickens at the day.
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The whelming grief that waits thy sire's return!
Beneath some black'ning yew's sepulchral gloom,
Where pensive Sorrow seems to court the tomb,
Where tenfold shades repel the light of day,
And ghostly footsteps seem to press the way.
Bent to the ground by mis'ry, and by years,
View thy pale bleeding mother bath'd in tears;
Her look disorder'd, and her air all wild,
She beats the breast that fed a worthless child;
And oh! she cries—
Oh had the fostering milk to poison turn'd,
Some ague shiver'd, or some fever burn'd;
Had death, cold death, befriended on the morn,
In which these eyes beheld a daughter born;
Or had th' Eternal, seal'd her eyes in night,
Ere she the barrier knew 'twixt wrong and right,
Ne'er had these curses then assail'd my head—
Why spring such torments from a lawful bed!
Now, melted, soften'd, gentler she complains,
Rage ebbs away, the tide of love remains:
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Down the dear furrows of her matron face;
But still the anxious mother brings to light,
Scenes of past joy, and innocent delight;
Calls to remembrance each infantine bliss,
The cradle's rapture, and the baby's kiss;
Each throbbing hope, that caught th' embrace sincere,
With every joy that rose in every tear;
The beauteous prospect brightning every day,
The father's fondling, and the mother's play.
Yet soon she finds again the sad reverse,
Till harrass'd nature sinks beneath its curse;
Again more fierce—more mad she rends her frame,
And loudly brands Almeria with her shame!”
Here paus'd, and shrunk, the vision from my view,
But Conscience colour'd, as the shade withdrew:
Pierc'd to the heart, in agony I lay,
And, all confusion, rose with rising day,
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But ah! what hope could morning bring to me,
What, but the mournful privilege to see,
To view the pleasures which I could not share,
And waste the day in solitude and care?
The sun more clearly shone on my disgrace,
And mark'd more deep the blushes on my face.
What, but the mournful privilege to see,
To view the pleasures which I could not share,
And waste the day in solitude and care?
The sun more clearly shone on my disgrace,
And mark'd more deep the blushes on my face.
Then, all enrag'd I curs'd th' abandon'd hour,
When honour yielded to the traitor's pow'r,
When rash, I scorn'd the angel voice of Truth,
In all the mad simplicity of youth:
When from a father's arms forlorn I stray'd,
And left a mother's tenderness unpaid:
While nature, duty, precept, all combin'd
To fix obedience on a daughter's mind.
When honour yielded to the traitor's pow'r,
When rash, I scorn'd the angel voice of Truth,
In all the mad simplicity of youth:
When from a father's arms forlorn I stray'd,
And left a mother's tenderness unpaid:
While nature, duty, precept, all combin'd
To fix obedience on a daughter's mind.
Stung at the thought, each vengeance I design'd,
And weary'd heaven to desecrate mankind!
From room to room distractedly I ran,
The scorn of woman, and the dupe of man.
And weary'd heaven to desecrate mankind!
From room to room distractedly I ran,
The scorn of woman, and the dupe of man.
Alcanor, curst Alcanor! first I sought
(And, as I past, a fatal dagger caught)
My fury soon the smiling villain found,
Struck at his heart, and triumph'd in the wound:
“A ruin'd woman gives th' avenging stroke!”—
He reel'd, he fell, he fainted as I spoke.
But soon as human blood began to flow,
Soon as it gush'd, obedient to the blow,
Soon as the ruddy stream his cheek forsook,
And death sat struggling in the changing look,
Love, and the woman, all at once return'd;
I felt his anguish, and my rashness mourn'd;
O'er his pale form I heav'd the bursting sigh,
And watch'd the languors of his fading eye,
To stop the crimson tide my hair I tore,
Kiss'd the deep gash, and wash'd with tears the gore,
'Twas love,—'twas pity—call it what you will;
Where the heart feels,—we all are women still.
(And, as I past, a fatal dagger caught)
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Struck at his heart, and triumph'd in the wound:
“A ruin'd woman gives th' avenging stroke!”—
He reel'd, he fell, he fainted as I spoke.
But soon as human blood began to flow,
Soon as it gush'd, obedient to the blow,
Soon as the ruddy stream his cheek forsook,
And death sat struggling in the changing look,
Love, and the woman, all at once return'd;
I felt his anguish, and my rashness mourn'd;
O'er his pale form I heav'd the bursting sigh,
And watch'd the languors of his fading eye,
To stop the crimson tide my hair I tore,
Kiss'd the deep gash, and wash'd with tears the gore,
'Twas love,—'twas pity—call it what you will;
Where the heart feels,—we all are women still.
But low I bend my knees to pitying heav'n,
For his recovery to my prayers was giv'n;
He liv'd—to all the rest I was resign'd,
And murder rack'd no more my tortur'd mind:
He liv'd—but soon with mean perfidious stealth,
Left his pale prey, and rioted in health.
For his recovery to my prayers was giv'n;
He liv'd—to all the rest I was resign'd,
And murder rack'd no more my tortur'd mind:
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Left his pale prey, and rioted in health.
Yet think not now arriv'd the days of joy;
Alcanor flatter'd only to destroy;
Alike to blast my body, and my mind,
He robb'd me first, then left me to mankind;
Soon from his Janus face the mask he tore,
The charm was broke, Almeria pleas'd no more:
The dreadful cheat awhile to hide he strove,
By poor pretences of a partial love,
Awhile disguis'd the surfeits of his heart,
And top'd, full well, the warm admirer's part;
Till tir'd at last, with labouring to conceal,
And feigning transports which he could not feel,
He turn'd at once so civilly polite,
Whate'er I said, indifference made so right,
Such coldness mark'd his manners and his mien,
My guilt—my ruin—at a glance were seen.
Alcanor flatter'd only to destroy;
Alike to blast my body, and my mind,
He robb'd me first, then left me to mankind;
Soon from his Janus face the mask he tore,
The charm was broke, Almeria pleas'd no more:
The dreadful cheat awhile to hide he strove,
By poor pretences of a partial love,
Awhile disguis'd the surfeits of his heart,
And top'd, full well, the warm admirer's part;
Till tir'd at last, with labouring to conceal,
And feigning transports which he could not feel,
He turn'd at once so civilly polite,
Whate'er I said, indifference made so right,
Such coldness mark'd his manners and his mien,
My guilt—my ruin—at a glance were seen.
I now assum'd in vain a chaster part,
In vain I struggled with a breaking heart
Forlorn, I try'd to purify my stain,
Correct my life, and rise, reform'd, again:
Pleas'd at the hope, from savage man I flew,
And sought protection from each friend I knew;
Each friend, at my approach, shrunk back with dread,
Hide, hide, they cry'd, thy pestilential head!
Then for the meanest servitude I sought,
But nice suspicion at my figure caught;
Too flaunting was my dress, my air too free,
And deep reserve betok'ning mystery;
Some frailty rais'd a doubt, where'er I came,
And every question flush'd my cheeks with shame;
Conscious of guilt, overshadow'd by pretence:
'Twas hard to act the farce of innocence.
Oft as I begg'd the servant's lowest place,
The treach'rous colour shifted in my face;
The fatal secret glow'd in ev'ry look,
Trembling I stood, and stammering I spoke.
In vain I struggled with a breaking heart
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Correct my life, and rise, reform'd, again:
Pleas'd at the hope, from savage man I flew,
And sought protection from each friend I knew;
Each friend, at my approach, shrunk back with dread,
Hide, hide, they cry'd, thy pestilential head!
Then for the meanest servitude I sought,
But nice suspicion at my figure caught;
Too flaunting was my dress, my air too free,
And deep reserve betok'ning mystery;
Some frailty rais'd a doubt, where'er I came,
And every question flush'd my cheeks with shame;
Conscious of guilt, overshadow'd by pretence:
'Twas hard to act the farce of innocence.
Oft as I begg'd the servant's lowest place,
The treach'rous colour shifted in my face;
The fatal secret glow'd in ev'ry look,
Trembling I stood, and stammering I spoke.
Next, came the views of home into my mind,
With each dear friend, and relative behind;
Pardon, and pleasure, started to my thought,
While hope inspir'd forgiveness of my fault:
But soon, too soon, those sweet ideas fled,
And left me begging at each door for bread.
Yet poor indeed was this support to me,
(Ah, had I starv'd on common charity!)
Far other woes and insults were in store,
My fame was lost, and I could lose no more;
Driven to the dreadful precipice of sin,
My brain swam round, and hurl'd me headlong in.
With each dear friend, and relative behind;
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While hope inspir'd forgiveness of my fault:
But soon, too soon, those sweet ideas fled,
And left me begging at each door for bread.
Yet poor indeed was this support to me,
(Ah, had I starv'd on common charity!)
Far other woes and insults were in store,
My fame was lost, and I could lose no more;
Driven to the dreadful precipice of sin,
My brain swam round, and hurl'd me headlong in.
And now, no pen could picture my distress,
'Twas more, much more than simple wretchedness;
Famine, and guilt, and conscience tore my heart,
And urg'd me to pursue the wantons part.
Take then the truth, and learn, ah, learn my shame:
Such my hard fate—I welcom'd all that came.
'Twas more, much more than simple wretchedness;
Famine, and guilt, and conscience tore my heart,
And urg'd me to pursue the wantons part.
Take then the truth, and learn, ah, learn my shame:
Such my hard fate—I welcom'd all that came.
But oh! no transport mingled in my stains,
No guilty pleasure ever sooth'd my pains;
No vicious hope, indelicately gay,
Nor warmer passions lull'd my cares away;
The flattering compliment fatigu'd my ear,
While half afraid, I half conceal'd a tear:
Whole nights I pass'd insensible of bliss,
Lost to the loath'd embrace, and odious kiss;
Nor wine, nor mirth, the aching heart could fire,
Nor could the sprightly music ought inspire;
Alive to each reflection that oppress'd,
The more I gain'd, the more I was distress'd;
Ev'n in the moment of unblest desire,
Oft would the wretch complain I wanted fire;
Cold as a statue in his arms I lay,
Wept thro' the night, and blush'd along the day—
Ah think what terrors e'er could equal mine!
Ah think, and pity—for I once was thine!
The sweet society of friends was o'er,
For happier women dare invite no more;
And they, at noon, would meet me with alarms,
Who stole at midnight to my venal arms.
No guilty pleasure ever sooth'd my pains;
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Nor warmer passions lull'd my cares away;
The flattering compliment fatigu'd my ear,
While half afraid, I half conceal'd a tear:
Whole nights I pass'd insensible of bliss,
Lost to the loath'd embrace, and odious kiss;
Nor wine, nor mirth, the aching heart could fire,
Nor could the sprightly music ought inspire;
Alive to each reflection that oppress'd,
The more I gain'd, the more I was distress'd;
Ev'n in the moment of unblest desire,
Oft would the wretch complain I wanted fire;
Cold as a statue in his arms I lay,
Wept thro' the night, and blush'd along the day—
Ah think what terrors e'er could equal mine!
Ah think, and pity—for I once was thine!
The sweet society of friends was o'er,
For happier women dare invite no more;
And they, at noon, would meet me with alarms,
Who stole at midnight to my venal arms.
My own companions no sweet comfort brought,
A shameful set, incapable of thought;
Their wanton passions ne'er could touch my heart,
For all was looseness, infamy, and art;
No modest maxims suited to improve,
No soft sensations of a chaster love,
No gen'rous prospects of a soul refin'd,
No worthy lessons of a noble mind,
E'er touch'd their bosoms, harden'd to their state:
Charm'd by their arts, and glorying in their fate;
Some stroke of frolic was their constant theme,
The dreadful oath, and blasphemy extreme,
Th' affected laugh, the rude-retorted lye,
Th' indecent question, and the bold reply;
Even in their dress, their business I could trace,
And broad was stamp'd the Harlot on each face;
O'er every part the shameful trade we spy,
The step audacious, and the rolling eye:
The smile insidious, the look obscene,
The air enticing, and the mincing mein.
A shameful set, incapable of thought;
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For all was looseness, infamy, and art;
No modest maxims suited to improve,
No soft sensations of a chaster love,
No gen'rous prospects of a soul refin'd,
No worthy lessons of a noble mind,
E'er touch'd their bosoms, harden'd to their state:
Charm'd by their arts, and glorying in their fate;
Some stroke of frolic was their constant theme,
The dreadful oath, and blasphemy extreme,
Th' affected laugh, the rude-retorted lye,
Th' indecent question, and the bold reply;
Even in their dress, their business I could trace,
And broad was stamp'd the Harlot on each face;
O'er every part the shameful trade we spy,
The step audacious, and the rolling eye:
The smile insidious, the look obscene,
The air enticing, and the mincing mein.
With these, alas! a sacrifice I liv'd;
With these the wages of disgrace receiv'd:
But heav'n, at length, its vengeance to complete,
Drove me—distemper'd—to the public street.
For on a time, when light'ning fir'd the air,
And laid the sable breast of midnight bare;
When rain and wind assail'd th' unshelter'd head,
That sought in vain—the blessing of a bed;
Distress'd—diseas'd—I crawl'd to every door,
And beg'd, with tears, a shelter for the poor!
My knees, at length, unable to sustain
The force of hunger, and the weight of rain,
Fainting I fell, then stagg'ring rose again,
And wept, and sigh'd, and hop'd, and rav'd in vain,
With these the wages of disgrace receiv'd:
But heav'n, at length, its vengeance to complete,
Drove me—distemper'd—to the public street.
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And laid the sable breast of midnight bare;
When rain and wind assail'd th' unshelter'd head,
That sought in vain—the blessing of a bed;
Distress'd—diseas'd—I crawl'd to every door,
And beg'd, with tears, a shelter for the poor!
My knees, at length, unable to sustain
The force of hunger, and the weight of rain,
Fainting I fell, then stagg'ring rose again,
And wept, and sigh'd, and hop'd, and rav'd in vain,
Then (nor till then) o'erwhelm'd by sore distress,
To my own hand I look'd for full redress;
All things were apt—no flatterer to beguile,
Twas night—'twas dark—occasion seem'd to smile:
Where'er I turn'd, destruction rose to view,
And, on reflection, rising frenzy grew.—
From foolish love, the knife, conceal'd, I wore,
Which, in my rage, Alcanor's bosom tore;
Thought press'd on thought—th' unsettled senses flew,
As from my breast the fatal blade I drew;
Still the stain'd point with crimson spots was dy'd,
“And this is well—'tis blood for blood,” I cry'd!
Then did I poise the instrument in air,
Bent to the stroke, and laid my bosom bare:
But ah! my crimes that instant rose to view,
Disarm'd my purpose—my resolves o'erthrew;
Fear shook my hand, I flung the weapon by,
Unfit to live—I was not fit to die!—
To my own hand I look'd for full redress;
All things were apt—no flatterer to beguile,
Twas night—'twas dark—occasion seem'd to smile:
Where'er I turn'd, destruction rose to view,
And, on reflection, rising frenzy grew.—
From foolish love, the knife, conceal'd, I wore,
Which, in my rage, Alcanor's bosom tore;
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As from my breast the fatal blade I drew;
Still the stain'd point with crimson spots was dy'd,
“And this is well—'tis blood for blood,” I cry'd!
Then did I poise the instrument in air,
Bent to the stroke, and laid my bosom bare:
But ah! my crimes that instant rose to view,
Disarm'd my purpose—my resolves o'erthrew;
Fear shook my hand, I flung the weapon by,
Unfit to live—I was not fit to die!—
Ah! wretched woman, she, who strays for bread,
And sells the sacred pleasures of the bed;
Condemn'd to shifts, her reason must despise,
The scorn and pity of the good and wise;
Condemn'd each call of passion to obey,
And in despite of nature to be gay;
To force a simper, with a throbbing heart,
And call to aid the feeble helps of art;
Oblig'd to suffer each impure caress,
The slave of fancy, and the drudge of dress;
Compell'd to suit her temper to each taste,
Scorn'd if too wanton, hated if too chaste;
Forc'd with the public whimsy to comply,
As veers the gale of modern luxury;
And oft th' afflicted creature must sustain
Strokes more severe, yet tremble to complain:
The felon bawd, a dreadful beast of prey,
Rules o'er her subjects with despotic sway,
Trucks for the human form, with fatal pow'r,
And bargains for her beauties by the hour.
But should some female in her dang'rous train,
Attend the altar of her shame with pain,
Dispute at length the monster's base controul,
And dare assert the scruples of her soul;
Should she reluctant yield to the disgrace,
And shew the signs of sorrow in her face,
Th' imperious abbess frowns her into vice,
And hates the sinner that grows over-nice.
And sells the sacred pleasures of the bed;
Condemn'd to shifts, her reason must despise,
The scorn and pity of the good and wise;
Condemn'd each call of passion to obey,
And in despite of nature to be gay;
To force a simper, with a throbbing heart,
And call to aid the feeble helps of art;
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The slave of fancy, and the drudge of dress;
Compell'd to suit her temper to each taste,
Scorn'd if too wanton, hated if too chaste;
Forc'd with the public whimsy to comply,
As veers the gale of modern luxury;
And oft th' afflicted creature must sustain
Strokes more severe, yet tremble to complain:
The felon bawd, a dreadful beast of prey,
Rules o'er her subjects with despotic sway,
Trucks for the human form, with fatal pow'r,
And bargains for her beauties by the hour.
But should some female in her dang'rous train,
Attend the altar of her shame with pain,
Dispute at length the monster's base controul,
And dare assert the scruples of her soul;
Should she reluctant yield to the disgrace,
And shew the signs of sorrow in her face,
Th' imperious abbess frowns her into vice,
And hates the sinner that grows over-nice.
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But hear, yet hear, your hapless daughter's plea,
Some little pity still is due to me.
If to have felt each agony of mind,
To bear the stings which conscience leaves behind;
If at each morn to shudder at the light,
Dread the fair day, and fear the coming night;
If, like the thief, of ev'ry eye afraid,
Anxious I sought the blush-concealing shade;
If my sad bosom, bursting with its weight,
Bled and bewail'd the hardships of my fate;
If to have known no joys, yet known all pains,
Can aught avail to purge my former stains,
Judge not your child,—your suppliant,—too severe,
But veil her frailties, and bestow a tear!—
Some little pity still is due to me.
If to have felt each agony of mind,
To bear the stings which conscience leaves behind;
If at each morn to shudder at the light,
Dread the fair day, and fear the coming night;
If, like the thief, of ev'ry eye afraid,
Anxious I sought the blush-concealing shade;
If my sad bosom, bursting with its weight,
Bled and bewail'd the hardships of my fate;
If to have known no joys, yet known all pains,
Can aught avail to purge my former stains,
Judge not your child,—your suppliant,—too severe,
But veil her frailties, and bestow a tear!—
Yet has Almeria now a juster claim
To seal her pardon, and to close her shame,
Nobler each early trespass to remove,
And hope again the sanction of your love.
These holy mansions, sacred to our woes,
Which screen from scorn, and hide us from our foes;
Which the fallen woman gradually retrieve,
Reform the manners, and the mind relieve;
Which shield from barbarous man his hapless prey;
Expunge the spot, and chace the blush away;
Sooth every sorrow by the pow'r of pray'r,
And half supply a parent's pious care;
Which lull the flutt'ring pulses to repose,
Each anguish soften, and each wish compose;
Wean us from scenes that fatally misguide,
And teach the breast to glow with nobler pride:
These holy mansions have receiv'd your child,
And here she mourns each passion that beguil'd.
Thrice has the sun his annual beams bestow'd,
And found me here, determin'd—to be good:
Already feels my heart a lighter grief,
And each white minute brings me fresh relief;
Or if by chance my sorrows I renew,
Half claim my crimes, and half belong to you;
Here then for ever, secret and resign'd,
Here for its God will I prepare my mind;
Here pass conceal'd, my penitential days,
And lead a life of piety and praise.
To seal her pardon, and to close her shame,
Nobler each early trespass to remove,
And hope again the sanction of your love.
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Which screen from scorn, and hide us from our foes;
Which the fallen woman gradually retrieve,
Reform the manners, and the mind relieve;
Which shield from barbarous man his hapless prey;
Expunge the spot, and chace the blush away;
Sooth every sorrow by the pow'r of pray'r,
And half supply a parent's pious care;
Which lull the flutt'ring pulses to repose,
Each anguish soften, and each wish compose;
Wean us from scenes that fatally misguide,
And teach the breast to glow with nobler pride:
These holy mansions have receiv'd your child,
And here she mourns each passion that beguil'd.
Thrice has the sun his annual beams bestow'd,
And found me here, determin'd—to be good:
Already feels my heart a lighter grief,
And each white minute brings me fresh relief;
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Half claim my crimes, and half belong to you;
Here then for ever, secret and resign'd,
Here for its God will I prepare my mind;
Here pass conceal'd, my penitential days,
And lead a life of piety and praise.
Come then, thou lovely patroness of Fame,
Thou bright restorer of a ruin'd name,
Come, fair Repentance, o'er each thought preside,
Patient I follow such a heav'nly guide;
To all thy laws implicitly I bend,
And call thee sister, saviour, genius, friend!
Oh! let me breathe the solemn vow sincere,
Oh! let Religion consecrate each tear!
Then, should long life be mercifully giv'n;
Again the soul may dare to think of heav'n;
Then, cleans'd from every dark and Ethiop stain,
Virtue, that dove of peace, shall come again,
With smoothest wings re-settle on my breast,
And open prospects of eternal rest.
Thou bright restorer of a ruin'd name,
Come, fair Repentance, o'er each thought preside,
Patient I follow such a heav'nly guide;
To all thy laws implicitly I bend,
And call thee sister, saviour, genius, friend!
Oh! let me breathe the solemn vow sincere,
Oh! let Religion consecrate each tear!
Then, should long life be mercifully giv'n;
Again the soul may dare to think of heav'n;
Then, cleans'd from every dark and Ethiop stain,
Virtue, that dove of peace, shall come again,
With smoothest wings re-settle on my breast,
And open prospects of eternal rest.
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And yet, before that golden hour arrive,
Ah! would my injur'd relatives forgive!
Ah! could they see this happier turn of fate,
And view their poor Almeria's chaster state;
Then would they fondly close her fading eye,
Bless her last breath, and bid her peaceful die.
Ah! would my injur'd relatives forgive!
Ah! could they see this happier turn of fate,
And view their poor Almeria's chaster state;
Then would they fondly close her fading eye,
Bless her last breath, and bid her peaceful die.
Deep in her ward's most venerable gloom,
Late was a contrite sister, from her room,
Where long the blushing, pious vot'ress lay,
And sought a shelter from the shame of day,
In words half-smother'd by the heaving sigh,
And voice that spoke despair,—thus heard to cry:—
Late was a contrite sister, from her room,
Where long the blushing, pious vot'ress lay,
And sought a shelter from the shame of day,
In words half-smother'd by the heaving sigh,
And voice that spoke despair,—thus heard to cry:—
“Oh! injur'd Chastity, thou heav'nly dame,
Thou spotless guardian of the cherub Fame,
Who arm'st fair Virtue 'gainst th' insulting foe,
And in her cheeks commands the rose to blow:
Had I, oh! had I still thy rules obey'd,
Despis'd the treach'rous town, and walk'd the shade;
Had I each villain stratagem defy'd,
And scorn'd the flatterer with a decent pride;
Had I withstood his arrows at my heart,
Oppos'd each trick, and baffled ev'ry art,
Then lib'ral truth might ev'ry hour employ,
Each thought be rapture, and each hope be joy;
Then lov'd, rever'd, as mother and as wife,
Blest had I been, in the pure vale of life.
Haply my Edward—Oh! lamented name,
Once my high boast, before I plung'd in shame;
Haply my Edward, yielding to my charms,
(Oh! my smote bosom, whence these new alarms?
Why spring the conscious drops into my eye?
Why feels my heart the love-impassion'd sigh?)
I dare not speak my promis'd happiness—
Yet, Edward, couldst thou witness my distress,
Witness the firm unviolated mind,
Seduc'd by vice, but not to vice inclin'd:
Couldst thou behold the constant-falling tear,
My pray'rs attest, my self-reproaches hear;
Ah! couldst thou think how deeply I bewail,
How thick enshrowd me in the friendly veil;
How, in the sacred solitude of night,
The care of heav'n unceasing I invite,
Breathe the warm wish, and pour the fervent prayer;
Now dare to hope, and now expect despair:
Couldst thou but see these changes of my grief,
Surely thy pity would bestow relief.
My Edward's virtue, (for I know his heart,)
The balms of soft compassion would impart,
His breast would mitigate each stern decree,
And judgment yield to Mercy's milder plea;
But he is lost—fond wretch, thy plaint give o'er—
The dear, the injur'd Edward, is no more,
Or, if he lives—he recollects thy shame,
Scorns thy false vows, and hates th' unworthy flame.”—
Thou spotless guardian of the cherub Fame,
Who arm'st fair Virtue 'gainst th' insulting foe,
And in her cheeks commands the rose to blow:
Had I, oh! had I still thy rules obey'd,
Despis'd the treach'rous town, and walk'd the shade;
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And scorn'd the flatterer with a decent pride;
Had I withstood his arrows at my heart,
Oppos'd each trick, and baffled ev'ry art,
Then lib'ral truth might ev'ry hour employ,
Each thought be rapture, and each hope be joy;
Then lov'd, rever'd, as mother and as wife,
Blest had I been, in the pure vale of life.
Haply my Edward—Oh! lamented name,
Once my high boast, before I plung'd in shame;
Haply my Edward, yielding to my charms,
(Oh! my smote bosom, whence these new alarms?
Why spring the conscious drops into my eye?
Why feels my heart the love-impassion'd sigh?)
I dare not speak my promis'd happiness—
Yet, Edward, couldst thou witness my distress,
Witness the firm unviolated mind,
Seduc'd by vice, but not to vice inclin'd:
Couldst thou behold the constant-falling tear,
My pray'rs attest, my self-reproaches hear;
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How thick enshrowd me in the friendly veil;
How, in the sacred solitude of night,
The care of heav'n unceasing I invite,
Breathe the warm wish, and pour the fervent prayer;
Now dare to hope, and now expect despair:
Couldst thou but see these changes of my grief,
Surely thy pity would bestow relief.
My Edward's virtue, (for I know his heart,)
The balms of soft compassion would impart,
His breast would mitigate each stern decree,
And judgment yield to Mercy's milder plea;
But he is lost—fond wretch, thy plaint give o'er—
The dear, the injur'd Edward, is no more,
Or, if he lives—he recollects thy shame,
Scorns thy false vows, and hates th' unworthy flame.”—
Scarce had the pensive child of Sorrow spoke,
When from a neighbouring ward these accent broke:
“Tis she!—'tis she!—th' unfortunate is found,
My pulse beats quick—Ah! save me from the ground,
Support me—help me—some assistance lend,
And my faint footsteps to the mourner bend;
She lives!—she lives!”—The unhappy woman heard,
Shook in each nerve, and trembled at each word,
Then swooning sunk at length upon the floor,
Just as th' afflicted stranger reach'd the door:
Tottering he enter'd—caught th' afflicted fair,
And rais'd her flutt'ring frame, with tend'rest care.
When from a neighbouring ward these accent broke:
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My pulse beats quick—Ah! save me from the ground,
Support me—help me—some assistance lend,
And my faint footsteps to the mourner bend;
She lives!—she lives!”—The unhappy woman heard,
Shook in each nerve, and trembled at each word,
Then swooning sunk at length upon the floor,
Just as th' afflicted stranger reach'd the door:
Tottering he enter'd—caught th' afflicted fair,
And rais'd her flutt'ring frame, with tend'rest care.
Ah drooping lily! rise to life and me,
And, in this faded form, thy Edward see;
Recall the lustre in the sparkling eye,
And bid for ever all thy sorrows fly;
Long have I sought thee with a lover's zeal,
For thee alone I weep, for thee I feel;
Come then, fair penitent, forget each woe,
And ev'ry pleasure, ev'ry transport know;
Lost be the mem'ry of thy former stain,
Thy pow'rful pray'rs have wash'd thee white again;
Bury'd be ev'ry anguish in this kiss,
Wake then, O wake, to virtue and to bliss!”
And, in this faded form, thy Edward see;
Recall the lustre in the sparkling eye,
And bid for ever all thy sorrows fly;
Long have I sought thee with a lover's zeal,
For thee alone I weep, for thee I feel;
Come then, fair penitent, forget each woe,
And ev'ry pleasure, ev'ry transport know;
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Thy pow'rful pray'rs have wash'd thee white again;
Bury'd be ev'ry anguish in this kiss,
Wake then, O wake, to virtue and to bliss!”
He said, and press'd her in a soft embrace,
While the warm blood sprang flushing to her face,
Now pale retir'd, now ran a deeper red,
Till cheer'd at last, the sweet disorder fled;
A thousand tender questions now succeed,
They smile alternate, and alternate bleed.
Edward, the chaplain's long-try'd friend had been,
And hence arose the late propitious scene;
The sacred chaplain gave her to his care,
Join'd their kind fates, and left them with a pray'r.
While the warm blood sprang flushing to her face,
Now pale retir'd, now ran a deeper red,
Till cheer'd at last, the sweet disorder fled;
A thousand tender questions now succeed,
They smile alternate, and alternate bleed.
Edward, the chaplain's long-try'd friend had been,
And hence arose the late propitious scene;
The sacred chaplain gave her to his care,
Join'd their kind fates, and left them with a pray'r.
| Miscellanies (1785) | |