The Land of the Muses a poem, In the Manner of Spenser. With Poems on several Occasions. By Hugh Downman |
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The Madness of Aspasia. |
 | The Land of the Muses |  |
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The Madness of Aspasia.
Curse on the wretch, whoe'er he be,
That the fond maid betrays,
Blasts unsuspecting Innocence,
And snares for Virtue lays;
That the fond maid betrays,
Blasts unsuspecting Innocence,
And snares for Virtue lays;
Who works upon an easy mind,
Causes of anger feigns,
And to the Fair who loves him well,
Of cold disdain complains;
Causes of anger feigns,
And to the Fair who loves him well,
Of cold disdain complains;
And when she opens all her soul,
Seizes th'unguarded time,
The sudden start of generous love,
And glories in his crime.
Seizes th'unguarded time,
The sudden start of generous love,
And glories in his crime.
Such Cynthio, such Aspasia was,
In prime of earliest youth;
She a devoted victim fell
To his pretended truth.
In prime of earliest youth;
She a devoted victim fell
To his pretended truth.
Pall'd by possession, though her soul
Was worth a kingdom's price;
Yet all its charms could not retain
The harden'd slave of Vice.
Was worth a kingdom's price;
Yet all its charms could not retain
The harden'd slave of Vice.
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He gave her up to all the pangs
Which Delicacy knows,
Which, conscious of reproach and shame,
From nicest feeling flows.
Which Delicacy knows,
Which, conscious of reproach and shame,
From nicest feeling flows.
Yet shall avengement sure, though slow,
Harass his guilty mind;
That pity he denied to her,
Will be from him confin'd.
Harass his guilty mind;
That pity he denied to her,
Will be from him confin'd.
The grief, th'unutterable grief,
Which to her sire befell,
No pen, no other tongue but that
Of a fond sire can tell.
Which to her sire befell,
No pen, no other tongue but that
Of a fond sire can tell.
Let us, my friends, says he, find out
Where the afflicted strays;
Let us, if possible, at least,
Give her some little ease;
Where the afflicted strays;
Let us, if possible, at least,
Give her some little ease;
Her bosom with the lenient balm
Of tender Pity fill,
Or sit in silent woe around,
As the mute mourner, still.
Of tender Pity fill,
Or sit in silent woe around,
As the mute mourner, still.
But stay, she comes along this path:
Oh, thou heart-breaking sight!
Before my eyes this hour had seen,
Would they'd been steep'd in night!
Oh, thou heart-breaking sight!
Before my eyes this hour had seen,
Would they'd been steep'd in night!
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She's mad, my friends, I see it well,
I read it in her eye;
That wild glance thrown around, bespeaks
Th'extreme of misery.
I read it in her eye;
That wild glance thrown around, bespeaks
Th'extreme of misery.
She opes her pallid lips to speak;
O ruin'd Excellence!
Pour forth thy unconnected thoughts,
And reave me of my sense.
O ruin'd Excellence!
Pour forth thy unconnected thoughts,
And reave me of my sense.
I've been to yonder wood to gather flowers,
There on a bank so steep,
I saw him lying fast asleep;
I stole on softly to the bowers,
No ear
My silent step could hear:
For why should I awake,
Or cause him from his sleep to start?
But a fierce snake
My footsteps did pursue,
I nothing of it knew,
And springing on me, eat out all my heart.
See what a frightful wound!
Ah! no, it cannot now be found.
So I snatch'd up my flowers in haste,
And round my head have trac'd;
But they're too bright and gay,
As I wear them in my hair,
They make my complexion more faded appear:
Away! away! away!
Yet I have been as fair as they;—
But should they be betrayed,—
Depriv'd of their bloom,
They'd sink down to the tomb,
And be pale and wan like me.
Be sure with them let my hearse be drest,
And strew them o'er my earthly bed,
Where I shall shortly lie:
When the cold turf supports my head,
I'll take my fill of rest;
The worm sha'n't hear me sigh.
But I pray you secret prove:
Tell it not to my love,
Nor let him that way go,—
For should he come in,
And see me look so thin,
His heart would burst in two.
No;—he has quite forgot,
He says he knows me not
Now in my misery.
And will you believe him too?
Has madness seiz'd your mind?
Though you may think him true,
The faithless seas and wind,
Are not more false than he.
Methinks I can't but smile,
That he should you beguile.—
I heed not what he says,
But stop up my ears,
And am deaf to his prayers.
In vain his flatteries he displays,
And tells me I am fair
As the new-fallen snow,
That my keen eyes have pierc'd him through,
That me alone he loves.—No, no,
When once deceiv'd, beware.
Fool that I was! I thought him true.—
Oh snatch him, snatch him from my view—
Yet ye tormentors set him free,
Give him his liberty:
The pain his conscience brings,
Is worse than all your racks of steel,
Your whips and cruel stings:
I know what he must feel.—
He swore, so holy was his flame,
That I should never know
A pleasure or a woe,
But he should feel the same.
So bid the bride-maids come;
I'll be dress'd all in white:—
We'll take the damask room;—
'Tis long before 'tis night.—
What say you? Lost! 'tis all a jest;
It is not yet quite dark:
He stays till I'm undrest.—
Is that the morning lark?
Not yet return'd? where fled? where fled?
Alas, I knew it well;
I knew that he was dead,
Although you would not tell.
I'm wonderous cold: My hands are clay,—
My blood in frost is bound;—
Yet force me not away:
We'll lie in the same spot of ground:
Under this marble stone,
I shall enjoy him all alone.
There on a bank so steep,
I saw him lying fast asleep;
I stole on softly to the bowers,
No ear
My silent step could hear:
For why should I awake,
Or cause him from his sleep to start?
But a fierce snake
My footsteps did pursue,
I nothing of it knew,
And springing on me, eat out all my heart.
See what a frightful wound!
Ah! no, it cannot now be found.
So I snatch'd up my flowers in haste,
And round my head have trac'd;
But they're too bright and gay,
As I wear them in my hair,
They make my complexion more faded appear:
Away! away! away!
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But should they be betrayed,—
Depriv'd of their bloom,
They'd sink down to the tomb,
And be pale and wan like me.
Be sure with them let my hearse be drest,
And strew them o'er my earthly bed,
Where I shall shortly lie:
When the cold turf supports my head,
I'll take my fill of rest;
The worm sha'n't hear me sigh.
But I pray you secret prove:
Tell it not to my love,
Nor let him that way go,—
For should he come in,
And see me look so thin,
His heart would burst in two.
No;—he has quite forgot,
He says he knows me not
Now in my misery.
And will you believe him too?
Has madness seiz'd your mind?
Though you may think him true,
The faithless seas and wind,
Are not more false than he.
Methinks I can't but smile,
That he should you beguile.—
I heed not what he says,
But stop up my ears,
And am deaf to his prayers.
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And tells me I am fair
As the new-fallen snow,
That my keen eyes have pierc'd him through,
That me alone he loves.—No, no,
When once deceiv'd, beware.
Fool that I was! I thought him true.—
Oh snatch him, snatch him from my view—
Yet ye tormentors set him free,
Give him his liberty:
The pain his conscience brings,
Is worse than all your racks of steel,
Your whips and cruel stings:
I know what he must feel.—
He swore, so holy was his flame,
That I should never know
A pleasure or a woe,
But he should feel the same.
So bid the bride-maids come;
I'll be dress'd all in white:—
We'll take the damask room;—
'Tis long before 'tis night.—
What say you? Lost! 'tis all a jest;
It is not yet quite dark:
He stays till I'm undrest.—
Is that the morning lark?
Not yet return'd? where fled? where fled?
Alas, I knew it well;
I knew that he was dead,
Although you would not tell.
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My blood in frost is bound;—
Yet force me not away:
We'll lie in the same spot of ground:
Under this marble stone,
I shall enjoy him all alone.
Oh! help, my friends! her shuddering limbs,
Her interrupted breath,
And those convulsive strugglings, speak
The quick approach of death.
Her interrupted breath,
And those convulsive strugglings, speak
The quick approach of death.
And are there powers in heaven above?
Will they this sight behold?
Then Virtue droop thy fearful head,
Exulting Vice be bold.
Will they this sight behold?
Then Virtue droop thy fearful head,
Exulting Vice be bold.
Oh take her gently from the ground,
Alas! she moves no more,
Her mortal pilgrimage is past,
And mine will soon be o'er.
Alas! she moves no more,
Her mortal pilgrimage is past,
And mine will soon be o'er.
| The Land of the Muses | |