 | Poems |  |
Lady Jane Grey to Lord Guilford Dudley.
An Epistle. In the Manner of Ovid.
From these dark cells, in sable pomp array'd,
Where night's black horrors breathe a deeper shade,
Where ev'ry hour some awful vision brings
Of pale assassins, and the shrouds of kings,
What comforts can a wretched wife afford
The last sad moments of her dying Lord?
With what fond tear, what love-impassion'd sigh,
Sooth the dear mourner e'er he reach the sky?
Where night's black horrors breathe a deeper shade,
Where ev'ry hour some awful vision brings
Of pale assassins, and the shrouds of kings,
What comforts can a wretched wife afford
The last sad moments of her dying Lord?
With what fond tear, what love-impassion'd sigh,
Sooth the dear mourner e'er he reach the sky?
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Ye pow'rs of song that ev'ry chord inspire
When Rome's soft Ovid weeps along his lyre,
Ye angel-sounds that Troy's great Hector mourn
When his lost consort bleeds upon his urn!
Teach me, ye warblers! teach this strain of woe
Like you to kindle, and like you to flow.
When Rome's soft Ovid weeps along his lyre,
Ye angel-sounds that Troy's great Hector mourn
When his lost consort bleeds upon his urn!
Teach me, ye warblers! teach this strain of woe
Like you to kindle, and like you to flow.
Alas! in vain ye bid your warmths divine
Wake all the string, and live thro' all the line.
Spite of those warmths, th' immortal numbers roll
Cool from my hand, and faithless to my soul;
Too faint a wish, too calm a sigh impart,
Hide half my grief, and tell but half my heart,
Lose the fond anguish of this flowing tear,
And the keen pang that tears and tortures there.
Wake all the string, and live thro' all the line.
Spite of those warmths, th' immortal numbers roll
Cool from my hand, and faithless to my soul;
Too faint a wish, too calm a sigh impart,
Hide half my grief, and tell but half my heart,
Lose the fond anguish of this flowing tear,
And the keen pang that tears and tortures there.
'Tis said that souls, to love's soft union wrought,
Converse by silent sympathy of thought:
O! then with that mysterious art divine
The fierce impatience of my breast by thine:
And when some tender, recollecting sigh,
Pours the big passion from each weeping eye,
When rapt, and wild, thy fond ideas roll,
And all my image takes up all thy soul;
Think that my breast the same dear tumults move,
As keen an anguish, and as soft a love:
Think that I hear thy pray'rs, explore thy fears,
Sigh to thy sighs, and weep with all thy tears,
Form all thy wishes, all thy phrenzies see,
And feel for Guilford all he feels for me.
Converse by silent sympathy of thought:
O! then with that mysterious art divine
The fierce impatience of my breast by thine:
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Pours the big passion from each weeping eye,
When rapt, and wild, thy fond ideas roll,
And all my image takes up all thy soul;
Think that my breast the same dear tumults move,
As keen an anguish, and as soft a love:
Think that I hear thy pray'rs, explore thy fears,
Sigh to thy sighs, and weep with all thy tears,
Form all thy wishes, all thy phrenzies see,
And feel for Guilford all he feels for me.
Ah! where are now the joys my fancy drew
For ever blooming, and for ever new!
Where the dear scenes that meditation aid,
The rill's soft mumur, and th' embow'ring shade;
Where all the heartfelt charities that move
The warmths of rapture in the pulse of love?
Lost, lost for ever, like th' ethereal fire
Shot thro' the sky to glitter and expire.
For ever blooming, and for ever new!
Where the dear scenes that meditation aid,
The rill's soft mumur, and th' embow'ring shade;
Where all the heartfelt charities that move
The warmths of rapture in the pulse of love?
Lost, lost for ever, like th' ethereal fire
Shot thro' the sky to glitter and expire.
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Hide it, ye pow'rs! the sad, the solemn day
That gave a Dudley to the house of Grey:
For, O! when to the altar's foot we came,
And each fond eye confess'd the kindling flame;
Just as the priest had join'd my hand to thine
An awful tremor shook the hallow'd shrine,
A sudden gloom the sacred walls array'd,
And round the tapers threw an azure shade;
The winds blew hollow with the voice of pain,
Aerial echoes sigh'd thro' all the fane:
'Twas God himself that, from th' empyreal sky,
Look'd inauspicious on the nuptial tie,
And pitying taught, as prophecies of woe,
The shrines to tremble, and the wind to blow.
That gave a Dudley to the house of Grey:
For, O! when to the altar's foot we came,
And each fond eye confess'd the kindling flame;
Just as the priest had join'd my hand to thine
An awful tremor shook the hallow'd shrine,
A sudden gloom the sacred walls array'd,
And round the tapers threw an azure shade;
The winds blew hollow with the voice of pain,
Aerial echoes sigh'd thro' all the fane:
'Twas God himself that, from th' empyreal sky,
Look'd inauspicious on the nuptial tie,
And pitying taught, as prophecies of woe,
The shrines to tremble, and the wind to blow.
O! had thy blood drunk in some fell disease,
From each chill pinion of th' autumnal breeze,
Had yon keen sun, with all the rage of pain,
Wing'd every pulse, and scorch'd up every vein,
Extinguish'd Guilford e'er he liv'd his span,
It had been nature, and the fate of man.
Heav'ns! had my cares but eas'd thy parting breath,
In life's last moment, and the gasp of death,
Explor'd the dear imperfect sounds that hung
Loose on each fibre of the fault'ring tongue.
Cool'd the fond phrenzies of thy parting sigh,
Wip'd the warm drop from each expiring eye;
I had but known what many a virtuous pair
Are doom'd to suffer, and are doom'd to bear:
But, O! in thought's wild images to see
My glories fall, proud infamy! like thee,
See, 'midst the murmur of a million sighs,
The fabre glitter, and the scaffold rise;
To see my Guilford moving sadly slow
Thro' ranks of warriors, and the pomps of woe;
See him, while bending o'er his awful bier,
Shed the keen anguish of too warm a tear,
A tear that from the warmths of love proceeds,
And melts the husband, while the hero bleeds—
From each chill pinion of th' autumnal breeze,
Had yon keen sun, with all the rage of pain,
Wing'd every pulse, and scorch'd up every vein,
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It had been nature, and the fate of man.
Heav'ns! had my cares but eas'd thy parting breath,
In life's last moment, and the gasp of death,
Explor'd the dear imperfect sounds that hung
Loose on each fibre of the fault'ring tongue.
Cool'd the fond phrenzies of thy parting sigh,
Wip'd the warm drop from each expiring eye;
I had but known what many a virtuous pair
Are doom'd to suffer, and are doom'd to bear:
But, O! in thought's wild images to see
My glories fall, proud infamy! like thee,
See, 'midst the murmur of a million sighs,
The fabre glitter, and the scaffold rise;
To see my Guilford moving sadly slow
Thro' ranks of warriors, and the pomps of woe;
See him, while bending o'er his awful bier,
Shed the keen anguish of too warm a tear,
A tear that from the warmths of love proceeds,
And melts the husband, while the hero bleeds—
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Bleed, did I say?—Tear, tear, ye pow'rs of art!
Sense, nature, memory, from my tortur'd heart:
And thou,—beneath the pole's black umbrage laid,
Oblivion! daughter of the midnight shade!
With all thy glooms, and all thy mists, remove
Each sweet idea of connubial love:
Hide the dear man whose virtues first imprest
Too fond an image on my virgin breast;
From all the softness of my soul efface,
His every beauty, and his every grace;
And force that soul with patience to resign
All the dear ties that bound her fast to thine.
Sense, nature, memory, from my tortur'd heart:
And thou,—beneath the pole's black umbrage laid,
Oblivion! daughter of the midnight shade!
With all thy glooms, and all thy mists, remove
Each sweet idea of connubial love:
Hide the dear man whose virtues first imprest
Too fond an image on my virgin breast;
From all the softness of my soul efface,
His every beauty, and his every grace;
And force that soul with patience to resign
All the dear ties that bound her fast to thine.
Alas! vain effort of misguided zeal!
What pow'r can force affliction not to feel?
What saint forbid this throbbing breast to glow,
This sigh to murmur, and this tear to flow?
Still honest nature lives her anguish o'er,
Still the fond woman bleeds at every pore.
Ah! when my soul, all panting to aspire,
Each sense enraptur'd, and each wish on fire,
On all the wings of heav'n-born virtue flies
To yon bright sunshine, yon unclouded skies;
Spite of the joys that heav'n and bliss impart,
A softer image heaves within my heart;
Impassions nature in the springs of life,
And calls the seraph back into the wife.
What pow'r can force affliction not to feel?
What saint forbid this throbbing breast to glow,
This sigh to murmur, and this tear to flow?
Still honest nature lives her anguish o'er,
Still the fond woman bleeds at every pore.
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Each sense enraptur'd, and each wish on fire,
On all the wings of heav'n-born virtue flies
To yon bright sunshine, yon unclouded skies;
Spite of the joys that heav'n and bliss impart,
A softer image heaves within my heart;
Impassions nature in the springs of life,
And calls the seraph back into the wife.
Yet say, my Guilford! say, why wilt thou move
These idle visions of despairing love?
Why wilt thou still, with every grace and art,
Spread thro' my veins, and kindle in my heart?
O let my soul far other transports feel,
Wing'd with thy hopes, and warm'd with all thy zeal.
And thou, in yon imperial heav'n enshrin'd,
Eternal effluence of th' eternal mind!
O grace divine! on this frail bosom ray
One gleam of comfort from the source of day.—
She comes, and all my opening breast inspires
With holy ardors, and seraphic fires:
Rapt, and sublime, my kindling wishes roll,
A brighter sunshine breaks upon my soul;
Strong, and more strong the light celestial shines,
Each thought ennobles, and each sense refines:
Each human pang, each human bliss retires,
All earth-born wishes, and all low desires;
The pomps of empire, grandeur, wealth decay,
And all the world's vain phantoms fade away.
These idle visions of despairing love?
Why wilt thou still, with every grace and art,
Spread thro' my veins, and kindle in my heart?
O let my soul far other transports feel,
Wing'd with thy hopes, and warm'd with all thy zeal.
And thou, in yon imperial heav'n enshrin'd,
Eternal effluence of th' eternal mind!
O grace divine! on this frail bosom ray
One gleam of comfort from the source of day.—
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With holy ardors, and seraphic fires:
Rapt, and sublime, my kindling wishes roll,
A brighter sunshine breaks upon my soul;
Strong, and more strong the light celestial shines,
Each thought ennobles, and each sense refines:
Each human pang, each human bliss retires,
All earth-born wishes, and all low desires;
The pomps of empire, grandeur, wealth decay,
And all the world's vain phantoms fade away.
Rise, ye sad scenes! ye black ideas! rise,
Rise, and dispute the empire of the skies:
Ye horrors! come, and o'er my senses throw
Terrific visions, and a pomp of woe;
Call up the scaffold in its dread parade,
Bid the knell eccho thro' the midnight shade;
Full in my sight the robe funereal wave,
Swell the loud dirge, and open all my grave:
Yet shall my soul, all conscious of her God,
Resign'd, and sainted for the blest abode,
The last sad horrors of her exit eye,
Without a tremor, and without a sigh.
Rise, and dispute the empire of the skies:
Ye horrors! come, and o'er my senses throw
Terrific visions, and a pomp of woe;
Call up the scaffold in its dread parade,
Bid the knell eccho thro' the midnight shade;
Full in my sight the robe funereal wave,
Swell the loud dirge, and open all my grave:
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Resign'd, and sainted for the blest abode,
The last sad horrors of her exit eye,
Without a tremor, and without a sigh.
Ah, no—while heav'n shall leave one pulse of life
I still am woman, and am still a wife;
My hov'ring soul, tho' rais'd to heav'n by pray'r,
Still bends to earth, and finds one sorrow there:
There, there, alas! the voice of nature calls,
A nation trembles, and a husband falls.
I still am woman, and am still a wife;
My hov'ring soul, tho' rais'd to heav'n by pray'r,
Still bends to earth, and finds one sorrow there:
There, there, alas! the voice of nature calls,
A nation trembles, and a husband falls.
O! wou'd to heav'n, I cou'd, like Zeno boast,
A breast of marble, and a soul of frost,
Calm as old Chaos e'er his waves begun
To know a zephyr, or to feel a sun.
Romantic wish! for O, ye pow'rs divine!
Was ever misery, ever grief, like mine?
For ever round me glares a tragic scene,
And now the woman bleeds, and now the queen:
Now, back to Edward's recent grave conveyed,
Talk with fond phrenzy to his spotless shade;
Now wildly image all his sister's rage,
The baleful fury of the rising age,
Behold her sanguinary banners fly
Loose to the breezes of a British sky;
See England's genius quit th' imperial dome
To Spain's proud tyrant, and the slaves of Rome;
See all the land the last sad horrors feel
Of cruel creeds, and visionary zeal.
Mad bigotry her ev'ry son inspires,
Breathes all her plagues, and blows up all her fires,
Points the keen falchion, waves th' avenging rod,
And murders virtue in the name of God.
A breast of marble, and a soul of frost,
Calm as old Chaos e'er his waves begun
To know a zephyr, or to feel a sun.
Romantic wish! for O, ye pow'rs divine!
Was ever misery, ever grief, like mine?
For ever round me glares a tragic scene,
And now the woman bleeds, and now the queen:
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Talk with fond phrenzy to his spotless shade;
Now wildly image all his sister's rage,
The baleful fury of the rising age,
Behold her sanguinary banners fly
Loose to the breezes of a British sky;
See England's genius quit th' imperial dome
To Spain's proud tyrant, and the slaves of Rome;
See all the land the last sad horrors feel
Of cruel creeds, and visionary zeal.
Mad bigotry her ev'ry son inspires,
Breathes all her plagues, and blows up all her fires,
Points the keen falchion, waves th' avenging rod,
And murders virtue in the name of God.
May he, who first the light of heav'n display'd,
The deer Redeemer of a world in shade,
He who to man the bliss of Angels gave,
Who bled to triumph, and who died to save,
Beam all his gospel, sacred and divine,
On ev'ry bosom, and on ev'ry shrine,
Relieve th' expiring eye, and gasping breath,
And rescue nature from the arm of death.
The deer Redeemer of a world in shade,
He who to man the bliss of Angels gave,
Who bled to triumph, and who died to save,
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On ev'ry bosom, and on ev'ry shrine,
Relieve th' expiring eye, and gasping breath,
And rescue nature from the arm of death.
And now resign'd, my bosom lighter grows,
And hope soft beaming brightens all my woes.
Hark! or delusion charms, a Seraph sings,
And choirs to waft us spread their silver wings,
Th' immortals call, heav'n opens at the sound,
And glories blaze, and mercy streams around.
Away—e'er nature wake her pangs anew,
Friend, father, lover, husband, saint, adieu!
Yet when thy spirit, taught from earth to fly,
Spreads her full plume, and gains upon the sky,
One moment pause till these dead orbs resign
Their last saint beam, and speed my soul to thine:
Then, while the priest, in hallow'd robes array'd,
Pays the last honours to each parting shade,
While o'er our ashes weeps th' attending train,
And the sad requiem flows along the fane,
Our kindred souls shall wing th' ethereal way,
From earth and anguish to the source of day,—
To all the bliss of all the skies aspire,
And add new raptures to th' angelic choir.
And hope soft beaming brightens all my woes.
Hark! or delusion charms, a Seraph sings,
And choirs to waft us spread their silver wings,
Th' immortals call, heav'n opens at the sound,
And glories blaze, and mercy streams around.
Away—e'er nature wake her pangs anew,
Friend, father, lover, husband, saint, adieu!
Yet when thy spirit, taught from earth to fly,
Spreads her full plume, and gains upon the sky,
One moment pause till these dead orbs resign
Their last saint beam, and speed my soul to thine:
Then, while the priest, in hallow'd robes array'd,
Pays the last honours to each parting shade,
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And the sad requiem flows along the fane,
Our kindred souls shall wing th' ethereal way,
From earth and anguish to the source of day,—
To all the bliss of all the skies aspire,
And add new raptures to th' angelic choir.
And, O! if ought we knew, or left behind,
Can wake one image in the sainted mind,
If yet a friend, a parent, child, can move
Departed spirits to a sense of love,
Still shall our souls a kind connection feel
With England's senate, and with England's weal:
And drive from all its shores, with watchful care,
The flame of discord, and the rage of war.
Can wake one image in the sainted mind,
If yet a friend, a parent, child, can move
Departed spirits to a sense of love,
Still shall our souls a kind connection feel
With England's senate, and with England's weal:
And drive from all its shores, with watchful care,
The flame of discord, and the rage of war.
Perhaps, when these sad scenes of blood are o'er,
And Rome's proud tyrant awes the soul no more;
When anguish throws off all the veils of art,
Bares all her wounds, and opens all her heart,
Our hapless loves shall grace th' historic page,
And charm the nations of a future age.
Perhaps some bard, whose tears have learn't to flow
For injur'd nature, and to feel for woe,
Shall tell the tender melancholy tale
To the soft zephyrs of the western vale:
Fair truth shall bless him, virtue guard his cause,
And every widow'd matron weep applause.
And Rome's proud tyrant awes the soul no more;
When anguish throws off all the veils of art,
Bares all her wounds, and opens all her heart,
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And charm the nations of a future age.
Perhaps some bard, whose tears have learn't to flow
For injur'd nature, and to feel for woe,
Shall tell the tender melancholy tale
To the soft zephyrs of the western vale:
Fair truth shall bless him, virtue guard his cause,
And every widow'd matron weep applause.
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