University of Virginia Library

Far from the fostring gale and sunny ray,
Where Fortune's favourites on the downy lap
Of Luxury are lull'd, and to repose
Lur'd by the Syren song of flattering Hope,
Twice sixteen winters with the world at war
Had Theron liv'd. In each disastrous change,
Whether like humble shrubs he trod the vale,
And breath'd the balm of Solitude and Flowers,
Woo'd the pale violet, or the primrose dress'd;
Or driv'n from these, to climb the mountain's brow,
Fame, to her perilous summit call'd his step,
To seek the joys he found not in the glen,
Misfortune followed as he mov'd along;
Her sharp wind rais'd the tempest o'er his head,
And from his sorrowing heart drove the sweet sleep
That heals the soul, and medicines to its grief.

Ill-fated Theron! in thy earliest time,
When Health and Happiness, like Summer flowers,
Are rich in colour and profuse in bloom,
And blossoms cluster round Youth's vernal bower,
When like the oak, some parents kindly hand
Upon the tender plant he rears and loves,
Branches protection, and defends from harm,
Even then was Theron like the slender thorn
Upon the desolate Heath, expos'd alone,
An orphan of the Waste. No tender tear
Of friend or kindred, nourishing as dew
Bath'd the thin leaf that wither'd in his May,
And yet he died not, yet his generous soul
In native dignity withstood the storm,
That bore full hard upon his gentle youth,
And still the Poet's laurel grac'd his brow,
And Love and Fame their glossy garlands wove
To decorate his heart, and oft the sun
Bestow'd, alas! a transitory beam,
As lightning flashes while it strikes with death,
In splendid ruin to adorn his fall.

'Twas at a soothing interval of fate,
When no rude burst of passion on his soul
Pour'd the keen sense of agony or joy,
Arpasia caught his view:—much he admir'd,
Admir'd, but lov'd not, for his heart had long
Renounc'd the power that murders while it smiles.
Guarded he met her eye, tho' arm'd with fire
Bright as the flame that warms the breast of Heaven;
Guarded he heard her speak, tho' eloquence,
Wisdom, and wit, and honey'd accents flow'd
From her ripe lip the gods might wish to press;
She too, defended by the seven-fold shield
Of former disappointment, stood the shock
Of Love's full quiver in this new attack.
Cloath'd thus in mail, the fierce encounter both
Boldly essay'd, when lo! their weapons broke
Short in their hands unfaithful, while the points
Subtle and deep were striking in their hearts:
Thus both were wounded by an equal blow,
Both fought, both fell, while Love's insidious god
Look'd smiling on, and triumph'd in his power.

But ah! this strife was all in amity,
And when the contest clos'd, their hands were join'd,
Like two brave combatants whom love of arms,
And zeal to save their country, led to war,
Not conquerors but friends. Arpasia then
Disclos'd the history of her heart, and read,
Blotted by many a tear, the eventful page
Of Theron's fortunes, of the mazy woes
Which thro' the thorny labyrinth of life
From year to year his bleeding feet had trod;
How in the cradle, yet a babe, he found
No mother's hand to rock him to repose,
No mother's nurturing bosom to bestow
A softer pillow than the cygnet's down;
How Grief her palest lily in his cheek,
Killing Health's wholesome rose ere it could blow,
Sickly had set; how yet a harmless child
He roam'd a pilgrim wanderer o'er the world;
How the false friend his summer looks put on,
When Fortune's partial sun-beams play'd around,
But wore his winter features when the cloud
Fell fast and pityless, and bore to earth
The trembling Theron. In his storied woes,
Reflected strong, Arpasia saw her own;
She too her infant days pass'd with less joy
Than doth the linnet in her waving nest,
Which knows a parent's care; for no such care
Cradled Arpasia, whose sad fate too much,
Theron, resembled thine. Similitude severe!
Yet from severe similitude proceeds
The dearest sympathies and bonds of life.
And oh! Adversity, thy sacred tie
Unites thy votaries in a league more strong
Than all the golden compacts of the world
Form'd in a prosperous hour. Arpasia wept,
And Theron's tears were ready in his eye
To mix with hers, but they were April tears,
Where sun-beams temper showers.—
Two weary way-worn travellers they seem'd
By hazard met, after a toilsome round
Of sea and land, of forest and of fen,
To pause a while under the self-same shade,
Where entering on discourse they fondly tell
Their mutual tale, and much delighted find
Their wants, their wishes, and their griefs the same;
Till having rested, both together rise,
Together journey on with equal pace,
Reck not the perils of the future road,
Smile o'er the past, and swear to part no more.

The rapid passion in Arpasia's heart
Grew like the gathering flame in Theron's breast,
And former loves (if they might loves be call'd,
Which, like a gaudy feather on the stream,
O'er the fair surface idly passes on)
Died on the instant, as the taper's light
Sudden expires, when Phospher's living ray
Gems the rich zone of morn; yet, sad reverse!
Arpasia sicken'd, on the day design'd
To make her Theron happy:—At her couch
He stood, the herald of her languid eye,
To watch its motion, to proclaim its wish,
And spare the toil of speech. He fled from friends,
From Fame's full clarion, and the golden lyre,
To the lone chamber where Arpasia lay:
And oh! the soft embrace, the speechless gaze,
The tender pressure, and the silent tear;
And lovelier than the rest, the speaking smile
Of roseate health restor'd, that often paid,
With usury of joy, his guardian care!
“Begone! begone! tumultuous scenes,” he said,
As swift he bore his treasure from the din
Of city clamour to a cottage small,
Where never villager or shepherd maid
(Born to the plain, and in the vallies bred)
Their rural life with more sequester'd step,
More quiet pass'd the smooth domestic day,
Than Theron with Arpasia—
And yet 'was drear December, not a bower
(Such as romantic Love in his retreat
Desires) was blooming near:—A simple spot
Clad in its robe of winter. Yet by Fancy's power
Spring's sweetest children seem'd to deck the soil;
She bade her woodbines and her roses blow,
And call'd her fairest sun-beams from the sky
Herself created, to illume the scene,
And suckle every flower;—where Love resides,
There revels constant summer, there the trees
Assume perennial verdure, and the gale
(Tho' frozen Boreas sheds his mildew round)
Drops balm and odour from his viewless wing.

Thrice happy Theron, and thrice bless'd Arpasia!
Close to each other drawn, the mutual heart,
The mutual pleasure, and the mutual pain,
Was here unfolded; here was ratified,
Approv'd, confirm'd, and sign'd, Love's golden bond:
And his consenting eye, whose raging winds
Had tore their early hopes, appear'd at length
To bless and to support two drooping flowers,
Transplanted safe into a happier soil
Where the rude elements could vex no more.

But ah! how oft is Summer's fairest eve,
Where scarce the breathing zephyr stirs the leaf
Of rose or myrtle, by the thunder follow'd?
Even while the tender tints of setting day
Paint the horizon, and the dew descends
In silent blessing on the bathing flowers,
Broods the embowell'd mischief: loud it rolls
And rends the mournful mantle of the night.
Thus false, thus faithless, was the transient calm
That shone on Theron's and Arpasia's sky:
To the seductive world once more they went,
And at the threshold of their cot, alas!
They left Content, and Happiness, and Heav'n,

Cover'd with laurels, from the northern shore,
A blooming hero came, Arpasia's friend,
Arpasia's lover, whom the deathful din
Of constant action in the sanguine field,
And months of weary march, and years of toil,
Estrang'd not from the maid, whose soverign eye
Gilded his path to glory. Soon as peace
Sent her white doves to close the scene of blood
And bear the branching olive, swift the youth
Hasted to Albion's shore, and anxious sought
The hoarded treasure of his virgin heart.
He sought and found her on the fatal day,
She parted from her Theron; parted soon
To meet again. And tho' Arpasia ne'er
Had lov'd Sophronius (so the youth was call'd)
As women love, who give the maiden heart
In dear exchange of passion, glad she saw
A tender friend, escap'd from ruthless war
Return'd with honour to his native land,
The land he had defended: and her tears
Mix'd with her chaste embraces. Theron then
Quick hastening to Arpasia, instant saw
Rapture that weeps, and blushes that denote
The heart's strong triumph at a treasure sav'd
From the devouring war. Her heart he knew
Lodg'd in his own true bosom, yet he feared,
(Fear still is Love's attendant) that the joy
Thron'd in her eye, and from her rubied lip
Pouring the ardent welcome, might, perchance,
Nourish a dangerous softness, yet he prais'd
Her generous warmth and join'd the glowing zeal.
But when the youth, beneath the self-same roof,
With supplication strong to be receiv'd,
A chosen guest entreated, and his suit
Incautious friendship granted, who can draw
The pangs that seiz'd on Theron? Many a day
He fed in silence on his master griefs,
And bath'd his lonely pillow with his tears,
Far from Arpasia's mansion: Ev'ry friend,
Save she who cou'd administer relief,
Appear'd with comfort in their looks—while she,
(Cold as the marble that receives the drops
Of some pale mourner, at the urn which holds
The sainted ashes of the maid he lov'd)
Remain'd untouched, and while forlorn he lay
Death-sick beneath the chill of her neglect,
Sophronius was her theme. His health, his fame,
His rising fortune, and reward in arms,
Flam'd from her pen, which courted Theron's Muse,
To blazon forth his prowess in the war,
His fair deserts in peace. Yet still she talk'd
Of Friendship's early bonds, and nam'd not Love,
Nor seem'd to know the madness and despair
That rag'd in Theron's bosom, but led on
By Pity's gentle hand—for from the youth,
From change of climate, from fatigues of war,
And the heart's tender tumult, growing still,
That gently Pity claim'd, which the kind fair
(Without a thought that wrong'd the spotless faith,
Plighted to Theron) gave, with soul sincere;
Theron meanwhile believ'd it Love, fond Love enthron'd
Upon the mutual heart, and mad'ning thence,
Exclaim'd, infuriate—“Yes! they both shall fall!
“Since Pity thus can light her savage torch,
“And bind upon her altar, Love himself,
“Love in his turn, shall boast a sacrifice,
“And mark for death his victim!” Strait he rose,
'Twas the deep noon of night, he strode along,
A poignard snatch'd, and as he reach'd the dome
Of his Arpasia; soften'd at the view
From his torn heart these mournful accents broke:
“Oh had the chance been Theron's, had some maid,
“Bright as the morning star, her virgin heart
“Laid in the circle of these courted arms,
“And breath'd a passion warmer than e'er touch'd
“The breast of woman, tho' Compassion's sigh,
“The tenderest tear that ever Pity shed,
“The truest throb that ever Friendship knew
“Might plead his cause, nor these, nor death itself,
“Shou'd shake his plighted faith to false Arpasia,
“Shou'd shake his faith, ah no! by yonder heav'n
“Not the bright synod of the Gods shou'd draw
“His settled heart aside, tho' to the power
“Of heav'nly beauty, gold shou'd add a charm
“Richer than proud Golconda.” Scarce these words
Burst from his heart, e'en from the opening door
Rush'd forth, with hurrying step and troubled air,
Some one infolded in a thick disguise,
That needed scarce the darkness of the night
To mock discovery. Theron, at the view
Sudden retir'd unseen, and torpid stood
A few sad moments; then, with frantic haste
Pursued—Ah, hell-born Jealousy!
Thou child of Love,
Performing deeds more terrible than hate!
From shadows thinner than the fleeting night
That floats along the vale, or haply seems
To wrap the mountain in its hazy vest,
(Which the first sun-beam dissipates in air.)
How dost thou conjure monsters which ne'er mov'd
But in the chaos of thy frenzied brain!
Thence hurling frighted Reason from her throne,
And with her all the charities that wait
To grace her virtuous Court! Theron soon
O'ertook whom he pursu'd, nor doubting ought,
(For Jealousy allows no pause of sense).
It was his happy rival, rais'd his hand,
In which the poignard trembled, and in rage,
To madness, struck the bosom of—Arpasia!
Yes! 'twas Arpasia's self.
The faithful mistress, from her lover's arm,
Thus met her fate utimely, for e'er word,
Cou'd utterance find, the dagger in her breast
Transfix'd she found—“And hast thou kill'd me, Love?”
—Was all she spoke, then died in his embrace.
Upon her Theron's brow pale Horror sate,
“Kill thee!” he cried—then deep into his heart
Plung'd the fell blade, with poor Arpasia's blood,
Distain'd and reeking—agoniz'd he fell
And kiss'd the wound—expiring in her arms.