University of Virginia Library

XXI.

“Oh yet, my father! for thy life
The coming storm of battle shun,
Thou seest that Jove forbids the strife,
Nor Dian, nor Latona's son,
Whate'er their favouring power, can move
The fixt allmightiness of Jove.
Too well I know the blood that runs
Through thy dear veins but ill can brook
A scorn upon our warrior sons:—
Nay, spare the lightning of thy look.
Nor early let thy spirit see
The drooping thing I soon shall be!
Sad though the accents of my tongue,
I would not do thy glory wrong.
But who that saw such omens rise
From the clear depth of shrines and skies,
E'er shunned the slighted sign and lives,
Though blest with all that valour gives,
To me is given the fearful skill,
In planetary hours like this,
To read in light the secret will
Of destiny—Oh, spare me this!
For sable are the shapes I see,
And hurried are the shrieks I hear;
And those that charge, and those that flee,
And those that frown, and those that fear,
Are gathered, gathered, gathered near.
For shivered upon every hill,
The hero's weapons shall be spread,
And loud cascade and gushing rill
Shall long roll down our darkened dead.
As Jura's clouds nor pause nor flag,
But sweep alike o'er vale and crag;
As from his snows of thousand ages,
The loud, blue Rhenus bursts and rages;
A chieftain comes, who overwhelms
The strengh of Capitols and realms.
By the wild waters of this eye,
Which ne'er before has wept to any,
Oh, meet not thou his battle cry!
Brave not his bands, for they are many.
My bliss has ever been thy care,
When wert thou deaf to Julia's prayer!
Upon thy knees, thy neck I hang.
No mother lives to share my pang.
Why is thy brow so sternly bent?
Relent, my father, yet relent!
Speak—but one word in tenderness,
Speak—in thy fond, indulgent tone;
When I am quite companionless,
Oh, all alone! Oh, all alone!
When Thou, my sire, liest cold and low,
No clarion then to break thy sleep,
And when the fierce, insulting foe,
Passing, points at me as I weep,
And cries, “this is the warrior's daughter
“Who led his country's sons to slaughter,”
Oh! whither then shall Julia rush,
To hide the burning tears that gush!
The flowers—the mountains—wood, and wave,
Thy loved remembrance will recal:
I shall but ripen for the grave,
Thus lonely, scorned, abandoned all!
I never could survive to burn
Thy ashes for the silent urn,
And shrunk to that dark atom, see
My hope, my love, my life in thee:—
No! no! I fear, I feel, that first
This frame will melt, this heart will burst!”
Large, brilliant tears her voice impeded,
More strongly, tenderly, they pleaded.
That sight Alpinus could not brook;
He lost the firmness of his look;
And all to tenderness resigned,
Shook like a reed before the wind:
Groaning, he held his robe to hide
The gathering anguish as it grew,
“My dear, dear child! though all beside
Forsake thee, and thy father too,—
Thy prayers, thy piety, thy love
Will call a saviour from above
To guard thy sire, to calm thy fears;
Weep not! I cannot bear thy tears.
Our country! in that sacred word
A thousand oracles are heard;
Hers—I am hers—but still to thee
All that her son should dare to be.”
Low at the altar, faint and pale
As she, whose senses flit or fail,
He knelt: “this maid in life and death
“To thee, Diana, I bequeath:”
In all the martyrdom of woe
He gained the dreaded portico;
Thence flung, with feeling overwrought,
One look—of love surpassing thought:
She smiled—that dreadful smile had more
Of bitterness than all before.