 | Poems, dramatic and miscellaneous |  |
SCENE III.
EUDOCIA and PLACIDIA.Eudocia.
Oh! my Placidia,
The good, the generous Ætius is dead,
And murder'd by the hand of Valentinian.
Placidia.
Impossible!—'tis but the tale of malice, whisper'd round,
By some vile foe to Valentinian's house.
Eudocia.
'Tis done,
And hell itself records the dreadful deed.
Placidia.
My father ne'er could stain the imperial throne
By such a crime as this!
What! like the madman of old Philip's race,
Plunge his drawn dagger in the faithful breast
Of such a friend as Ætius?
Eudocia.
He has,
And my Gaudentius just escap'd the blow
Heraclius design'd, by speedy flight,
And in his stead Beotius was slain.
32
Where is the virtuous youth?—and where his friends?
Eudocia.
He pass'd the guards, Traulista by his side,
And, through the western gate, they, swift as lightning,
Hasted to Liguria—though much he lov'd,
He'll ne'er forgive the murd'rer of his sire;
He has a filial heart and valiant arm,
And nature's instinct wakes a tender strife.
The genuine virtues of his youthful heart,
Cherish'd by reason—ripen'd to sublime,
Nurs'd up by honour, gratitude and worth,
Call loud for vengeance o'er his father's tomb.
Placidia.
Alas! the gath'ring storm—what chosen blasts,
Heaven's vengeance next pours down, is with the gods.
Eudocia.
The death of Ætius augurs ill to Rome;
His soul, too firm to fear, or Goths, or Huns;
Too great to be corrupted, or deceiv'd,
Sooth'd their rough passions, balanc'd their ambition;
They lov'd, they fear'd, and will avenge his death.
Placidia.
When jealousy's at war with wild ambition,
And reason quits the helm amid the storm,
The furious hurricane of passion swells
Till ev'ry sail hurls on to sure perdition.
Eudocia.
Ah! my Gaudentius—could Eudocia's blood
Wash off the guilt contracted by her sire,
These veins I'd ope, and warm libations pour
Down at thy feet, to make his daughter
33
He must forever hate—despise—detest—
And curse the name of Cæsar's blasted race,
And fly the sight of his too wretched daughter.
Placidia.
Alas! I fear—I know not what I fear—
Imagination's short of what I dread
From complicated guilt, which stalks abroad.
Oh! Heaven avert the destiny of Rome!
Eudocia.
I'm sick of life—of pageantry and pomp—
Of thrones and sceptres stain'd by human blood:
Come let us wander down the sacred walks,
The silent grots, where virtue once reclin'd.
Of thrones and sceptres stain'd by human blood:
Come let us wander down the sacred walks,
The silent grots, where virtue once reclin'd.
The verdant forests bend their lofty tops
To make a covert for the weary head;
There tranquiliz'd beneath pale Cynthia's shade,
We'll breathe and whisper disappointed love;
And weep our country, family and friends,
'Till bright Aurora streaks the eastern skies
And lights us back among the busy throng.
To make a covert for the weary head;
There tranquiliz'd beneath pale Cynthia's shade,
We'll breathe and whisper disappointed love;
And weep our country, family and friends,
'Till bright Aurora streaks the eastern skies
And lights us back among the busy throng.
[Exeunt.
| Poems, dramatic and miscellaneous | |