Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

And now had Damon rush'd the thickets thro',
And her fleet steps pursu'd o'er smoother ground;
Cow'ring with frighted pace, the maniac flew
Thro' many a brambled alley winding round.
The trembling warbler thus affrighted flies
Before the kite, fierce tyrant of the skies!

Rapid, where'er her rapid footsteps wind,
His eager footsteps follow in the rear;
And now, not many shadows lengths behind,
These words addrest he to her listless ear:
“Ah turn, most injur'd of the lovely race!
“Turn, bless repentant Damon's fond embrace!

148

“No cruel foe with fierce intent pursues;
“No brutal force invades Amanda's peace;
“But love-repentant for thy pardon woos:
“Damon, who gave the wound, the wound would ease.”
So prays he, panting; but in vain he prays:
His pray'r she hears not, nor her speed delays.

Thus thro' the pathless wild, with equal pace,
Amanda panting flies, and he pursues:
Not clouds, when gales autumnal urge their chace,
Skim with a swifter pace their changeling hues.
Meanwhile Pastorus, on his foaming horse,
Wound round an op'ner road, Amanda's way to cross.

Just in the center of the gloomy wood,
(Where savage nature wore her wildest look)
Eastward, a tow'ring, uncouth growth there stood
(Which ne'er for ages cleaving axe had shook)
Of trees gigantic, closely interwove
With gorse, thorn, briar below, and spreading boughs above.

149

Here stood the oak majestic, doom'd to bear
Britannia's thunder o'er the raging seas;
Here the stout ash, the trembling aspen there,
Whose fine hung foliage shakes at every breeze;
The cypress, which bedecks the lover's hearse,
And laurel, meed of poets tuneful verse;

And sacred holly; maple, from whose bowl
His cup the rustic carves with art uncouth;
And birch, sad terror of the truant's soul;
And lime, and sycamore of stately growth:
And here the beech, and here the elm-tree grew,
And here the lofty pine appear'd in view.

The willow, docile to the bender's hands,
Whose boughs, entwisted, form the rustic throne;
And, white with bloom, the spreading elder stands,
Unprun'd, uncurb'd, to full luxuriance grown,
From whose ripe berries luscious bev'rage flows;
And graceful here the humid poplar grows.

150

The yew, found grateful to the bowman's trade,
And oft made tuneful to the lyrist's hand;
The weeping fir, the holm, whereof is made
The cornice gaily wrought. Here sallows stand,
And crab, whose boughs ungrateful fruits produce;
And box, whose close-wrought leaves the sunny beam refuse.

Thick clumps of hazle, interwove with briars,
Which or wild roses yield, or berries black;
Sloe-bearing thorns, and woodbine, which aspires
To clasp the beechen bough; nor was there lack
Of gorse, whose fast-succeeding blossoms blow
Thro' summer's heat, and eke thro' winter's snow.

Nor wanted broom, nor fern of secret source;
But, all confus'd, their uncouth shades display,
That not the mountain goat a path could force,
Nor stag high-bounding tread the gloomy way:
Each shrub, each tree of nature's giant birth,
Or dwarf-like sapling, hid both sky and earth.

151

To leftward this; but frowning to the right
A rugged, broken, steepy cliff arose,
With here and there a thorn,—a dreary sight,
Where never fruitage smiles, or flow'ret blows.
If browse it yielded, to reward his toil,
Scarce could the mountain goat find means to climb the steepy soil.

Here at the entrance of a sloping lane,
Which parts the cliff and gloom with rude descent,
Pastorus came in season to detain
The flying fair; her passage to prevent
To the rough wold which terminates the view;
For here with backward gaze she trembling flew.

Swift as the swallow skims the liquid lake,
She rapid pours along without one pause
To ease her wounded feet, which sorely ache
With the unceasing chace. She sees—she starts!—she draws
Her panting breath.—Then tremblingly her eyes
She rolls—thick throbs her fluttering heart with sighs!

152

So looks the hind forlorn, when baying hounds
Drive her, all trembling, o'er the printless plains,
If chance the shaggy lion furious bounds
Her way athwart, and all escape restrains.
With piteous shrieks, she rolls her tearful eye,
Then, muttering, gazes upward to the sky.

To wild delirium by her terrors wrought,
She borrow'd strength from madness and despair;
Death she determin'd in her gloomy thought;
Her frantic hands the rugged mountain tear;
With labour'd haste, with toil, with pain to climb,
Shrieking, she struggles to the hoar sublime.

Amaz'd, astonish'd at the wild intent,
To follow Damon toil'd, but toil'd in vain!—
Torn he beholds her hands, her feet sore rent;
And more than equal shares in all her pain.
—Once more he strives to follow—but again
Falls back to earth, and strives once more—in vain.

153

Say, ye deep skill'd in philosophic lore!
Why has the maniac such a wond'rous force?
Why should the frantic sally conquer more
Than yielded e'er to reason's stedfast course?—
Cool reason's strength does dread of suffering bind,
And coward thought intimidate the mind?

Or is there lodg'd within distracted hearts
Some fiend supernal, who to desp'rate deeds
Still urges on, and tenfold strength imparts,
Which neither terror checks, nor force impedes?
How else could weak Amanda upward strain,
Where Damon's strong-knit muscles strove in vain?

And now, distracted, 'gainst the rugged ground
He struck his head, and had himself destroy'd,
But that his friend restrain'd, and, looking round,
Not distant far, a winding path espy'd
Which to the mountain's top obliquely led:
Here, swift as lightning, breathless Damon fled.

154

Hawk like he mounts. Pastorus follows near.
And now, approaching to the summit brown,
The shock of boiling surges cleaves the ear,
Loud headlong tumbling many a fathom down;
Vex'd with rough rocks which broke their roaring way,
Loud froth'd their foaming tide, indignant of delay.

They see Amanda on the summit stand;
They hear her loud exclaim: “Oh friendly tide!
“Thou shalt preserve me from the spoiler's hand:
“Thy troubled surge Amanda's shame shall hide;
“Protecting death! Oh be thy shades rever'd!”—
Then, rushing downward, swift she disappear'd.

With horror stiffen'd each pursuer stood,
With hands to heav'n uprear'd, and swimming eyes;
Each pulse suspended, curdled was their blood,
Distraught at once with anguish and surprize.
Damon, at length, bounds forward in despair
To the same place whence plung'd the frantic fair.

155

Arrived, he starts, and some few steps withdraws;
With seeming transport, lifts to heav'n his eyes;
Then, rushing forwards, makes no longer pause,
But down the hoary steep impetuous flies.
His frantic friend a nearer way ascends,
Where o'er the sable tide the frowning summit bends.

The vast profound appals his aching sight,
Whose awful bed, by rocky fragments broke,
The tide obstructs. Waves roar, and frothing white
In whirlpools sweep impetuous. Down the rock
A hundred cataracts fall; then dashing flies
The wave contentious, foaming tow'rds the skies:
In cloud-like mists the spattering waters rise.

Benumb'd with grief, and stupid with surprise,
Along the cliff he roves, whose hollow space
Groans to the dashing surge, yet find his eyes
Of neither hapless lover mark nor trace.
Silent he mourns: such griefs his heart devour
That scarce to think is left the painful pow'r.

156

And now, perceiving where a slow descent
Down to the troubled waters seem'd to wind,
To tread the dangerous path his mind is bent,
The mangled body of his friend to find,
(Oh fruitless search!) and her the frantic fair;
And o'er their grave the pious marble rear.

As by the silver streams enamell'd brim
The bird domestic cowrs, with troubled breast,
And anxious walks, while on the surface swim
The web-foot denizens of her fostering nest;
Studious to save them from imagin'd ills:
Such the kind care his generous bosom fills.

So kind, so needless: for not far he went
The winding pathway down, when—strange to say!
Alive he kneeling saw, with head low bent,
His weeping friend; and close beside him lay
The injur'd fair-one, fainting, but not dead:
A reverend hermit's lap supports her head.

157

Is there in all the magick powers of verse
Terms of such rapture, that the ardent joys,
The trembling transports justly can rehearse
Which in Pastorus' friendly bosom rise?
Can words his looks of joy and wonder paint?
Ah no!—the powers of language are too faint.

But you, ye parents, friends, and lovers blest,
Who sadly drooping o'er some timeless bier,
From the child's, friend's, or lover's clay-cold breast,
Have deem'd the vital spirit fled for e'er,
And in distracting agonies have wrung
Your hands, expressive how your souls were stung;—

Ye, when the arts humane of pious men
(Oh blest Philanthropy! thy agents here)
Have wak'd the dormant spark of life again,
And chang'd to transport horrors starting tear;—
Ye, ye can guess, from what yourselves have felt,
The mingled passions in his soul which dwelt.