University of Virginia Library

From these lone Shades, and ever-gloomy Bowers,
Once, the dear Scenes of Henry's softer Hours!
What tender Strains of Passion can impart,
The Pangs of Absence to an amorous Heart!
Far, far too faint the Powers of Language prove,
Language that slow Interpreter of Love!
Souls pair'd like our's, like our's, to Union wrought,
Converse by silent Sympathy of Thought;
O then, by that mysterious Art, divine
The wild Impatience of my Breast, by thine!
And to conceive what I would say to thee,
Conceive, my Love, what thou wou'dst say to me!

As in the Tenderness of Soul I sigh,
Methinks, I hear thy tender Soul reply;
And as in Thought, o'er Heaps of Heroes slain,
I trace thy Progress on the fatal Plain,
Perhaps thy Thought explores me thro' the Grove,
And, soft'ning, steals an Interval of Love.
In the deep Covert of a bow'ring Shade
Describes my Posture—languishingly laid!
Now, sadly solac'd with the murm'ring Springs,
Now, melting into Tears the softest Things!
And how the feign'd Ideas all agree!
So bowers the Shade, so melt my Tears for thee!
Here, as in Eden, once we blissful lay;
How oft Night stole, unheeded, on the Day!
Our soft-breath'd Raptures charm'd the listening Grove,
And all was Harmony, for all was Love!

But hark! the Trumpet sounds! see Discords rise!
'Tis Honour calls; from me my Henry flies!
Honour, to him, more bright, than Rosamonda's Eyes!
Not thus my Honour with his Passion strove,
His Sighs I pity'd, and indulg'd his Love:
He then cry'd, Honour was an empty Name,
And Love a sweeter Recompence, than Fame.

Oh! had I liv'd in some obscure Retreat,
Securely fair, and innocently sweet;
How had I bless'd some humble Shepherd's Arms!
How kept my Fame as spotless as my Charms!
Then, hadst thou ne'er beheld these Eyes of mine,
Nor they bewail'd the fatal Power of thine!
Dear fatal Power! to me for ever dear—
Fix'd in my tender Breast, and rooted there!
For ever in my tender Breast remain—
And be for ever a delightful Pain!

With what Surprize those Glories first I view'd,
That in one Moment my whole Heart subdu'd!
With such resistless Beams, so fierce they shone,
Not such the dazling Radiance of thy Crown!
Sent from thy Crown I never felt a Dart;
The Lover, not the Monarch, won my Heart:
Nor e'er the Monarch with such Charms appears,
As when the Lover's soften'd Dress he wears:
As when he, silent, deigns my Breast to seek,
And looks such Language, as no Tongue can speak.

Whene'er my Crimes (if Love a Crime can be,
If 'tis a Crime to live, and die for thee!)
In hideous Forms arise, and cloud my Soul,
One Thought on Henry can that Gloom controul:
No more my Breast alternate Passions move,
The Frosts of Honour melt before the Fires of Love.

Again, I must repeat that fatal Hour,
Which snatch'd my Henry from his Woodstock Bower;
When mad Bellona, with tumult'ous Cries,
The Heroe rouz'd, and drown'd the Lover's Sighs.
Stretch'd on my downy Couch, at Ease I lay,
And sought by Reading to beguile the Day;
With am'rous Strains I sooth'd a grateful Fire,
And all the Woman glow'd with soft Desire.
Till, as I wish'd, I heard the vocal Breeze
Proclaim my Henry rusling thro' the Trees;
O'erjoy'd, I ran to meet thy longing Arms,
And taste a dear Remembrance of thy Charms;
But soon I saw some sad conceal'd Surprize,
Fade on thy Cheeks, and languish on thy Eyes;
Thro' each dissembled Smile, a Sorrow stole,
And whisper'd out the Secret of thy Soul.
What this could mean, uncertain to divine,
No Fault I knew, yet fear'd, some Fault was mine.
But soon thy Love dispell'd those airy Fears,
Dispell'd alas!—but brought too solid Cares.
For as with Hands, entwin'd in Hands, We walk'd,
Of Love, and hapless Lovers, still Thou talk'd:
Thy Tears of Pity answer'd each sad Moan,
And in their seeming Mis'ries, wept thy own.
“I cannot leave Her!—I o'er-heard Thee say,—
Pierc'd to the Soul, I sunk, and dy'd away.
What Art restor'd me, thou alone can'st tell,
For thy kind Arms embrac'd me, as I fell.
My opening Eyes, fix'd on thy Beauties, hung,
And my Ears drunk the Cordial of thy Tongue.
Again my Thoughts return with killing Pain,
Within thy Arms I sink, and swoon again:
Again thou do'st my sweet Physician prove,
From Death to Life alternately I move,
Now dead by Anguish, now reviv'd by Love.
But when, without Disguise, the Truth I found,
My agonizing Sorrows knew no Bound:
My Locks I tore, then, all-intranc'd, I lay,
Till by Degrees my Grief to Words gave Way,
And soft I cry'd,—oh! stay, my Henry, stay.
One Moment more!—add yet,—and yet, a Kiss!—
Oh! give me Thine, and take my Soul in This!
Farewel!—perhaps, farewel for ever!—oh!
Who can sustain so dire a Weight of Woe?

Ah! wretched Maid!—alas! a Maid no more!
No Herbs that spotless Title can restore!
Ah! who shall now protect thy injur'd Fame?
Who shield thy Weakness from th' Assaults of Shame?
Who lull thy anxious Soul to balmy Rest,
If Henry, dearest Henry, flies thy Breast?

Yet, tho' he flies, your Wings, ye Angels, spread,
And hover Guardians o'er my Henry's Head!
Who knows, but this kind Pray'r is pour'd too late,
And he already struggles with his Fate?
Already, wounded, pants, and gasps in Death,
And Rosamonda is his latest Breath?

Propitious Heaven! vouchsafe a gracious Ear!
Grant, these be only Phantoms of my Fear:
Heav'n still is gracious, if true Suppliants pray;
And lo!—the foul Chimæras fleet away!
Transporting Prospects to my Wishes rise,
Beam on my Soul, and brighten in my Eyes!
He lives! he lives! I see his Banner spread,
And Laurels, wreath'd round the gay Victor's Head!
Ye Winds! convey the News to Albion's Floods!
Ye Floods! resound it to the joyous Woods!
Ye joyous Woods! your tuneful Choirs prepare
To hail my Heroe from the Toils of War!

Delusive Scenes! too beautiful to stay!
They fade in visionary Streaks away.
Alas! no lovely Henry now is nigh!
His Genius took his Form to sooth my Eye.
No more I seem his melting Voice to hear!
Peace! babling Fountains! nor abuse my Ear.
Ye Flow'rs! ye Streams! ye Gales, no longer move!
For ah! how strong is Fancy, join'd with Love!

O! frail Inconstancy of mortal State!
One Hour dejected, and the next elate!
Rais'd by false Hopes, or by false Fears deprest,
How different Passions sway the human Breast!
Now smiling Pleasures, with fair Charms, invite,
Now frowning Horrors, with black Trains, affright.
Future Distrusts the present Joys controul,
And Fancy triumphs o'er the reas'ning Soul.

As 'mid the Trees I, solitary, rove,
The Trees awake some Image of my Love:
Where-e'er their Arms in am'rous Foldings join,
My longing Arms I spread to fold in thine.
The beauteous Flow'rs thy Face reflected bear,
(If Flow'rs, in Beauty, may with thee compare,)
Their wafted Fragrancies thy Breath inspire,
And my Soul kindles with ideal Fire!
The thick-weav'd Shades, and Grove incircling Grove,
Are Emblems of th' Eternity of Love.
My blushing Guilt the crimson Roses paint,
And I, like Roses, unsupported faint:
Like their's my youthful Charms (if Charms) consume,
For Love, a closer Canker, eats my Bloom.

How blest might other Nymphs survey these Scenes,
Fountains, and Shades, and Hills, and flow'ry Greens?
Prospects, on Prospects, might detain the Sight,
And still Variety give new Delight.
But I, with thee, should find in Desarts Ease;
Without thee, not ev'n Paradise could please.
Wilds, by thy Presence, Gardens would appear;
Gardens are Wilds, since Henry is not here.
Let Grottoes sink, or Porticoes arise!
Heedless I view them with unpleasur'd Eyes:
Their mantling Umbrage cools the Noon-day Fire,
But what can cool a Lover's fierce Desire?

In the deep Bosom of a darksome Shade,
By baleful Eugh and mournful Cypress made;
A Widow-Turtle weeps her ravish'd Love,
And Sorrowfully solaces the Grove;
Sometimes my Passion I aloud disclose;
The widow'd Turtle, answering, coes her Woes.

Bred by my Hand, my Sorrow's sad Relief,
A little Linnet learns to sigh my Grief;
Taught by my Voice, and by Obedience tame,
The pretty Lisper whistles Henry's Name:
Perch'd on my Head, the sylvan Syren sings,
And tunes the harsher Notes of gurgling Springs.

Embosom'd in a Vale, thou know'st the Shade,
Fast by the Murmurs of a soft Cascade;
There, while one Night full Beams of Cynthia play,
(Warm was the Night) with wand'rings tir'd, I lay,
Till, by Degrees, the falling Waters clos'd
My Eye-lids, and my weary'd Limbs repos'd.
Sudden the fairy Monarch I behold,
Near he approach'd, and thus my Fate foretold:
('Twas the same Oberon, that once we saw
Circle the Green, and give his Dancers Law,)

Unhappy Nymph! thy Beauty is thy Crime,
And must such Beauty perish in its Prime!
No more great Henry shall enjoy these Charms,
Nor thou ill-fated Fair adorn his Arms!
Cropt like an op'ning Rose, thy Fall, I fear!
But rise and supplicate the Vengeance near.

Then (as methought) I wak'd with threaten'd Woes,
Emerging from thick Shades, a Phantom rose.
One Hand sustain'd—a short, but naked Sword,—
And one a Golden Bowl, with Poison stor'd.
The jealous Queen, the frowning Form express'd,
It spoke, and aim'd the Dagger at my Breast.

Arise! nor ask thy Crime—but chuse thy Fate,
Know Prayers are vain—Repentance is too late!
Vengeance is mine—Here! drink this poison'd Bowl,
Or this keen Dagger drinks thy guilty Soul?
It ceas'd: Convulsions in my Bosom strove,
My curdling Blood scarce in stiff Tides could move.
Thrice I cry'd, Henry, with a feeble Sound,
And thrice I started at the sad Rebound!
Ev'n Echo now grew frightful: with surprize
Trembling I lay, nor dar'd t' unveil my Eyes,
Till warbling Birds proclaim'd the Morning Light,
And told me 'twas a Vision of the Night;
Yet not the Morn could chace my gloomy Care,
But Winds, and Trees, alarm'd my Soul with Fear;
While waving Boughs, that in the Sun-Beams play'd,
Seem'd to shew Daggers in each pointed Shade.

Why was I form'd with such a coward Mind?
The sport of Shadows, or a rustling Wind!
Nerves, better strung, did manly Spirits warm,
Glad would I part with ev'ry Female Charm,
Then, cas'd in Steel, the Front of Battle dare,
And, with great Henry, rouze the Soul of War!
This Arm should guard the Heroe from the Foe,
Repel the Storm, or intercept the Blow;
And should my Weakness in the Warriour fail,
The soft-beseeching Woman should prevail;
For Thee, I'd sooth each proud insulting Foe,
And melt him with petitionary Woe;
With Thee, in ev'ry hardy Hazard join,
In Dangers save thy Life, to make it Mine:
By Night, compose thy harrass'd Soul to rest,
And hush it on the Pillow of my Breast;
With patient Eyes eternal Vigils keep,
And court good Angels to protect thy Sleep.

Alas! in vain I urge my frustrate Will,
I find my self a feeble Woman still;
The feeble Woman to my Breast returns,
For Henry's gone, and Rosamonda mourns!
O! see my Eyes their streaming Anguish pour,
O! hear my Sighs increase the swelling Shower;
What can I more than shed my Tears and Sighs?
Poor Woman's Strength alone in Weakness lies?

But whether is ungovern'd Fancy flown?
Thoughts of Impossibilities be gone!
Guilt claims no Miracles, nor Heav'n conspires
To aid my Crimes, and fan my lawless Fires.
Life irksome grows; detested is the Light,
And my Soul dreads the Visions of the Night.
Swift let me to some hallow'd Convent go!—
Can I for ever Henry leave?—ah! No:—
But O lost Innocence!—I lost a Name:—
O Honour!—broken is the Bubble, Fame.
Are my Sins monstrous? Do invented Crimes,
Alike unknown to past, or present Times,
Demand red Vengeance? Some peculiar Curse?—
Crowds stand recorded for the same,—or worse.
Have I, unpitying, heard the Poor complain,
Or seen the Wretched weep, and weep in vain?
Have I my Flame feign'd for a sordid End?
E'er wrong'd a Foe, or e'er betray'd a Friend?
Not to my Charge such Crimes has Malice brought,
Love, only Love, is my unbounded Fault:
A Fault, that sure may Heav'n to Pity move,
Since half of Heav'n ('tis said) consists in Love.

Ah! foolish Nymph!—Here, view the Queen! the Laws!—
But there, view Henry, as th' inchanting Cause!
By such a Cause the Priestess would retire,
And quit the Vestal for a nobler Fire.

I will again th' immortal Powers implore;
Brave Henry for Britannia's sake restore!
In Him she lives, to Him her Joys are due,
And only fends her earliest Thanks to you.
But O! my Lord, my darling Lord, beware!
Tempt not too bold the Dangers of the War!
Think, when thou seest the fate-impelling Dart,
O! think it aim'd at Rosamonda's Heart!
Were but each Breast as soft as mine! no more
Should Tumults rise, or martial Thunders roar:
Heroes should scorn the Glories of the Field,
And the fam'd Laurel to the Myrtle yield:
For sweeter Passions, sweeter Strifes inspire,
And Love alone should set the Soul on Fire.

May then these Eyes in Tears no longer mourn,
But chearful hail their Henry's wish'd Return!
O! swift, victorious, hush the War's Alarms!
Swift, if thy Rosamonda boasts some Charms,
Fly on the Wings of Love, and Conquest to her Arms!