University of Virginia Library

AH! generous friend! who, with a patriot's zeal,
Stood'st forth, undaunted, in oppression's hour,
To shield this head devoted; and who still,
With unrepenting kindness (most unlike
The changeling multitude) essay'st to prop
The reed thou sav'd'st unbroken—vain the hope!—
Tho now no more, with her insensate howl,
The demon Persecution, tir'd, intrudes
On my sequester'd privacy—tho late
The autumnal deluge, by thy care disarm'd,
Fell on my fields innoxious, and the rage
Of hostile elements, by thee oppos'd
With sympathising friendship, but secur'd
A less penurious harvest:—vain the care
That from remorseless Destiny would snatch
Her hopeless victim. Me, from ill to ill,
From woe to woe still urging, her fierce hate
Pursues incessant, and has pierc'd, at last,
With barbed shaft, that never shall be drawn
The seat of vital feeling. Yes, 'tis here:
Deep in my heart I feel it: the poor heart,
That with convulsive wildness throbs, awhile,
But soon shall throb no more. So deems, at least,
Hope, that has now no refuge but despair—
In soothing strain so whispers: So the chords
Of this frail being (sensitive too much
To every touch of passion) sad, reply
With dissonance responsive. Yes they jar:
Each nerve and fibre feels the untuning touch
Of most assur'd decay. Dim swims the sight;
The vital spirits languish; and the blood,
No more obedient to the order'd course
Of self-preserving Nature, refluent oft
Turns on her o'ercharg'd fountain; or, impell'd
By wildering Anguish, rushes to the brain,
And whelms the sense in apoplectic whirl,
That Nature's chain seems bursting.—Why but seems?
Why is the stroke retarded?—Ah! my friend!
That these prophetic calls to me alone
Might give concernment—that this head repos'd
Upon Oblivion's turf, no widow'd heart
Might heave in wilder agonies; nor they,
The orphan'd pledges of our hapless loves,
Whom Fate as yet has spar'd, defenceless mourn
Their unprovided state, and infant years
Cast on a hostile world! How welcome then
The voice that summon'd to the insensate tomb
How pleas'd obey'd!—how aided! For to him—
Ah! what to him avails the sentient power
To whom all sense is pain? Who reft of joy—
Reft of each solace—reft of all that fed
Hope's vital lamp, benighted, droops, appall'd,
Amid the horrors of sepulchral gloom—
A conscious maniac?—while thought on thought
Flows on in sad monotony—and all
That in the frame of Nature wont to joy
Sight, or the touch, or hearing, seems to blend
In funeral lamentation, and recal,
With dirgeful record, the afflictive hour
Irremeable? And such, my friend, am I.
For she, alas! is gone, in whom I liv'd—
In whom all hope was center'd—whose sweet smiles
And fair expanding beauties, thro' the night
Of my disastrous destiny diffus'd
A soothing radiance; with reflective beam
Tempering its sombrous horrors.—Oh! most like
That boreal dawn that oft, in arctic climes,
With gay illusive splendour, gilds the gloom
Of the long winter; and false hope awakes
Of genial suns, and op'ning flow'rs, and sweets
Of vernal joyance, from the genial south
Approaching.—Yet to them, the Day shall come—
Tho distant. O'er their hills of melting snows,
And sudden-blooming plains, the northering tribes
Shall see their Summer God, in gorgeous pomp,
Rush joy-dispensing. But for me no more
Shall dawn the vital Day Star. Spring no more—
Nor joyous summer, in my blighted heart,
Shall glow with genial warmth. 'Tis winter all.
Darkness, and Storm, and ever-during Frost
Involve my hopes; and, in Maria's grave
My sun is set for ever: sunk—extinct,
In cold, eternal night. Nor ye who judge
A parent's anguish by the vulgar ties
That bound parental passion, vainly deem
My Grief's excess unmanly: nor insult,
With vain Philosophy, the poignant woes
That rend the sentient texture of this breast:
For 'tis no vulgar loss I'm doom'd to mourn,
And with no vulgar feeling;—nor such tears
As other fathers shed o'er other graves.
Shall dew Maria's turf, or ease this heart,
Whelm'd with exhaustless sorrow. Who would judge
My bosom's anguish, must have known the worth
That wak'd that bosom's fondness; must have known
My fostering cares; like me, with raptur'd eye,
Have mark'd each op'ning grace; have seen each germe
Of fond tuition, in that grateful soil,
Expand with matchless promise; must have felt
Association's power, that round the heart
(Blending events and feelings—times and things)
Twines links of adamant. This—this, and more—
They must have known the father, known the child—
Felt her endearments, and have shar'd my fate.

And much of this hast thou, O, friend belov'd!
And she, thy bosom's partner; and the train
Fraternal, who, perchance, with tearful eye
And bosoms sadly throbbing, round shall throng
Thy wintry fire, what time, with faltering voice
Thou read'st this sad memorial. Yes, ye knew
At once the lost and loser. Hence to you,
Seeking the balm of sympathy, I ope
My bosom's inmost anguish: in your ear
Pour all my griefs;—and, fearless of reproof,
Proclaim my weakness:—if that name belong
To love so meritted, to tears that flow
From such remember'd sweetness.—O, my babe!
Maria! Oh, Maria! thy lov'd name,
While Nature yet is vocal—while this heart
To this sad tongue can dictate, thy lov'd name
The rocks and conscious echoes shall repeat,
And murmuring Vaga mourn no loss but thine.