Poems on Various Subjects By John Thelwall. In Two Volumes |
 |
 | 1. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| [I]. |
| II. |
| III. | SCENE III. |
| IV. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
|
|
 | Poems on Various Subjects |  |
32
SCENE III.
Albert; Chorus.Chorus.
See, with what feeble and distracted steps
The wretched offspring of thy tender loves
Slowly withdraws. Ah yet thy rage restrain;
And let me back recal the trembling wretch:
For sure enough of anguish must she feel
From the base treachery of a perjur'd lover,
Without the sad addition of thy hate.
Albert.
Oh cursed Fortune! Is it come to this?
Is this the fruit of all my tender hopes?
Is this the end of all my boasted joys?
Is this—Oh wanton! murderess of my fame!
Curs'd be my hoary locks, for they no more
Shall claim respect and reverence from the crowd.
Curs'd be the hour that gave the harlot birth!
And curs'd be Roldan!—damned, impious fiend!
Oh that I had the treacherous villain here!
Old as I am, and feeble with my woes,
33
For crows to feed on, and for flies to taint.
Chorus.
Oh calm these boisterous passions! Ill befit
The frantic bellowings of ungovern'd Rage
With those white locks. List then to Reason's voice,
And calm the raging tempest of thy ire.
Albert.
He who has always sail'd on glassy seas
May mock the storm-toss'd sailor for his fears.
Chorus.
The prudent sailor, in the worst of storms,
Leaves not his bark to mercy of the waves,
Ply then the compass of unbiass'd Right;
And where that points thee steer by Reason's helm.
This would assur'dly teach thee to restore
Thy wretched daughter once more to thy love.
Albert.
Oh name it not; for never from this hour
Shall the ungrateful strumpet blast my sight.
Has she not plung'd me deep in endless shame?
Has she not turn'd the sole surviving hope,
The only comfort of my hapless age,
To grief and anguish? Oh ye cruel pow'rs!
Is this the meed of all my tender care?
Were all my sage instructions then too weak
To guard her honour? Was it, say, for this,
That from the earliest birth of infant thought
I careful strove her tender mind to form?
Shall the ungrateful strumpet blast my sight.
34
Has she not turn'd the sole surviving hope,
The only comfort of my hapless age,
To grief and anguish? Oh ye cruel pow'rs!
Is this the meed of all my tender care?
Were all my sage instructions then too weak
To guard her honour? Was it, say, for this,
That from the earliest birth of infant thought
I careful strove her tender mind to form?
How have I hung delighted o'er her charms,
Pouring the prudent counsels of my soul,
With ev'ry soft, insinuating art,
Which youth is ever pleas'd with, in her ear!
How has she oft with seeming rapture stood,
And mark'd, attentive, each instructive tale.
Then with the sweetest blandishments of love
Which infant fondness to a parent e'er
Could offer, would she pay my tender care;
Hang on my arm, and fondly kiss those lips
Whose honied lore she said her heart refin'd,
Lifted her soul to Virtue, and her breast
From ev'ry narrow sentiment sublim'd.
And now, when flattering Fancy painted all
The wish'd for virtues budding in her mind,—
The deadly weeds of Shame and wanton Guilt
Deform the scene, blast all my tender hopes,
And mar the promis'd harvest. Base Sophia!
Bane of my soul! polluter of my blood!
Never, oh never will I view her more.—
Oh hapless wretch! where shall I comfort find?
Where, where are Hope and Consolation flown?
Pouring the prudent counsels of my soul,
With ev'ry soft, insinuating art,
Which youth is ever pleas'd with, in her ear!
How has she oft with seeming rapture stood,
And mark'd, attentive, each instructive tale.
Then with the sweetest blandishments of love
Which infant fondness to a parent e'er
Could offer, would she pay my tender care;
Hang on my arm, and fondly kiss those lips
Whose honied lore she said her heart refin'd,
Lifted her soul to Virtue, and her breast
From ev'ry narrow sentiment sublim'd.
And now, when flattering Fancy painted all
The wish'd for virtues budding in her mind,—
35
Deform the scene, blast all my tender hopes,
And mar the promis'd harvest. Base Sophia!
Bane of my soul! polluter of my blood!
Never, oh never will I view her more.—
Oh hapless wretch! where shall I comfort find?
Where, where are Hope and Consolation flown?
| Poems on Various Subjects | |