The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott |  |
Words came, at length, and tears were wildly shed.
“I die at home, and thou art here,” he said;
“But though released, I die at home, and feel
Thy warm tears, Zillah, on my bosom cold;
Think not that aught but fire can soften steel,
Or that, in pity, wolves relax their hold.
Oh, I have dream'd of volleyed seas, and fire,
Sad retribution, haply, yet to be!
The tyrant's power and will obey a higher;
And vain is human strife with destiny.
Know, from thy womb the destined twain have sprung,
On whom the fate of this doom'd world is hung.
O may their deeds, magnanimous and just,
Cancel the crimes of ages, and retrieve
The fainting hopes of man, when I am dust!—
For I must leave thee, Eva! I must leave
Thee, my brave boy! your sire is summon'd hence
To join Mahali, whom his innocence
Could not defend or rescue; if, indeed,
My ill-starr'd father lives not yet fast bound
In torturing dungeons, whose slow pangs exceed
All other pangs. But, ah! what mists surround
My swimming brain! what means this sudden gloom?
Take not my children from me ere I die!
I cannot see your faces. Nearer come,
Irad, yet nearer. Eva, art thou nigh?
Zillah, thy hand—my poor, ill-fated one!
I see a shade, resembling thee—'tis gone!”
“I die at home, and thou art here,” he said;
“But though released, I die at home, and feel
Thy warm tears, Zillah, on my bosom cold;
Think not that aught but fire can soften steel,
Or that, in pity, wolves relax their hold.
Oh, I have dream'd of volleyed seas, and fire,
Sad retribution, haply, yet to be!
The tyrant's power and will obey a higher;
And vain is human strife with destiny.
Know, from thy womb the destined twain have sprung,
On whom the fate of this doom'd world is hung.
O may their deeds, magnanimous and just,
Cancel the crimes of ages, and retrieve
The fainting hopes of man, when I am dust!—
For I must leave thee, Eva! I must leave
Thee, my brave boy! your sire is summon'd hence
To join Mahali, whom his innocence
Could not defend or rescue; if, indeed,
My ill-starr'd father lives not yet fast bound
In torturing dungeons, whose slow pangs exceed
All other pangs. But, ah! what mists surround
My swimming brain! what means this sudden gloom?
Take not my children from me ere I die!
I cannot see your faces. Nearer come,
178
Zillah, thy hand—my poor, ill-fated one!
I see a shade, resembling thee—'tis gone!”
| The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott | |