Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lay still, my bounding heart! a while lay still,
Nor burst, thro' eagerness, thy swelling side!—
It will not be; the transports unrestrain'd,
Now as I nearer to the spot approach,
Grow doubly great. Oh agony of joy!
Oh bliss too great! Now, after four long years
Of tedious absence, thus to be restor'd
To a lov'd father and a doting mother.

But oh! how bounds my heart to thee, Sophia!
Thou dear-lov'd playmate of my infant years—
My lovely sister! And my bosom friend,
My Roldan too! him shall I see once more.
What joy to dart impatient to their arms,
Ris'n as it were from death! My dear Sophia!
How will thy tender bosom bound like mine!
How will thy lovely eyes with transport shine!
How will delight run thrilling thro' each vein,

When, with excess of fondness, thou shalt clasp
Thy long-lost brother once more to thy breast!

Roldan.
Oh wretch! wretch! wretch!

Edmund.
Alas! what moan is that?
Almighty Pow'r! he bears my Roldan's form;—
But Heav'n preserve him from such bitter woe!
For ah! his griefs would blight my budding joys.
Poor wretch! who, stretch'd all frantic on the ground,
Breath'st forth thy dolours to the public day,
What art thou? What thy plaint? Reveal and—Ha!

Roldan.
Shield! shield me, Heav'n! Have then my horrid crimes,
From the deep bottom of the briny tide,
Recall'd the ghost of my much injur'd friend?

Edmund.
What mean'st thou, Roldan?

Roldan.
Yes; I know thou com'st
To scourge and torture the detested wretch
Who dar'd, in violation of all laws
Of Friendship, and of Truth, of God, and man,
Despoil the sweet Sophia, hapless fair!
Of the rich treasure of her virgin fame;
And—

Edmund.
Ha! her virgin fame? Infernal villain!—
But thou shalt find in me no lifeless ghost,
Sent from the dreary mansions of the grave
To scare thy scoundrel soul with idle shrieks;
But one, oh monster! still possess'd of strength
To send thy howling soul to shades below;
There, in the ever-flaming depths of hell,
To mix with spirits of congenial stamp,
And clank thy burning chains, oh thou detested!—
With such devils as thyself.—Oh torture!
My sister, oh!

Chorus.
Alas! fresh woes remain.

Edmund.
Say'st thou fresh woes? What in the book of Fate
Can still so black be found as to increase
The more than Stygian horrors of my mind?

Roldan.
Oh wretch accurst, and impious as I am!
My cruel treatment drove the frantic fair
With desperate hand to terminate her woes.
Oh fatal cord!

Edmund.

Dead? Dead? Sophia dead?
My much-lov'd sister self-destroy'd? Alas!
Is this the fruit of all my springing hopes?
Do thus my transports end?

My sister dead?
Plung'd, all uncall'd for, in the awful realms
Of dark Eternity? Oh horrid thought!
Oh my tormented soul!—And thou the cause?
What damned fiend could steel thy barb'rous breast
To such accursed deeds?—But words are wind;
And bosoms hard as thine are not empierc'd
With unsubstantial weapons: therefore rise,

And, like a man (if manly feeling dwell
In breasts like thine) oppose my injur'd arm:
For die thou shalt, or to his sister's ghost
Dispatch young Albert's.

Chorus.
Ah brave youth, forbear!

Roldan.
Restrain him not. Oh my dear, injur'd friend!
Let loose thy rage. Here prostrate at thy knees
I bare my bosom, and entreat thy arm
To expedite the blow. Yes, kill the wretch
Whose damned arts, and cruelty have robb'd
Thy fair, accomplish'd, tender, lovely sister,
Of peace, of virgin honour, and of life.

Chorus.
Ah youth, forbear! Sheathe, sheathe thy furious sword!
See'st not the tear repentant down his cheek
Enanguish'd rolls, and speaks a tortur'd mind?

Edmund.

No, live, thou impious wretch! I will not blot
The name of Christian, which I boast to bear,
By taking vengeance of a prostrate foe,
Whose keen contrition's in his conduct seen.

But oh ye pow'rs, how cruel is my lot!
Wreck'd, and by cruel miracle preserv'd,
For four long years in distant climes I rov'd;
Long time a hapless vagabond, and poor;
Rent from the arms of ev'ry tender tie,
Of parents, sister, and of bosom friend,
Forlorn I griev'd. At length when sudden wealth
Had blest my toils, and winds and waves combin'd
To waft me rapid o'er the parting waves,—
Then when, of hope and expectation full,
I dart impatient to the much-lov'd arms
Of tender relatives, my cruel stars
Blast all my hopes, and plunge me headlong down
To the black abyss of Despair. I find
The dearest source of all my promis'd bliss
Destroy'd and ruin'd by a villain's hand;—
I find that villain in the bosom friend
Whose lov'd idea, thro' each distant clime,
I bore about, delighted, in my heart.

Chorus.
Have patience, noble youth, a while, and hear.—

Edmund.
What should I hear? What is't thou canst relate?
Canst thou describe with what a frantic look,
What tones of anguish, and what actions wild,
My wretched father tore the silver hairs,
With palsied hand, from off his hoary head?
Canst thou the shrieking agonies relate
Wherewith my mother view'd her breathless child?
This would'st thou tell me? This? For nothing sure
But sounds of horror and relations dire
Shall e'er again assail these wretched ears!

Chorus.
No, I would give thee comfort; give thee hope.

Edmund.
Away! What comfort can there be for me?
Oh sweet Sophia! dear, dear murder'd sister!—
But I will go, and (breathless as she is)
Strain her, distracted, to my sorrowing breast.

Chorus.
Not for the world. Thou must not enter now.
Tarry and hear: tho' late a breathless corpse
Thy sister was, yet is there hope she may,
In full possession of each vital pow'r,
Be to thy arms restor'd.

Edmund.
Ah, how! declare.

Chorus.
Of the HUMANE SOCIETY hast thou
As yet not heard? whose honours and rewards
Have to perfection brought the godlike art
Of rousing into life the dormant sparks
Of animation, and the latent fire
Rekindling with resuscitating breath
Of Medical Benevolence.

Edmund.
Before
The British coast I left, I oft have heard

The noble acts to which their civic crowns
Had urg'd the students of the healing art.

Chorus.
Now to perfection rais'd, the Institution,
Beneath the guardian patronage and care
Of our benevolent and pious King,
(Whose philanthropic principles, and zeal
For patriot works in lustre far exceed
The brightest jewels in the radiant wreath
That binds his royal brow) diffuses wide
The streams of its benevolence. The while
The noble Stamford's care and warm support,
(Assisted by the generous, the humane,
And worthy Beauchamp, Willoughby de Brook,
Pusey, and Andrews, valiant Oglethorpe,
And many others, whom the ardent glow
Of pure Benevolence has thus inspir'd)
Shelters its progress, and its pow'rs extends.

The while Humanicus, with annual toil,
Extends the useful knowledge of the means
By which the great Resuscitating Art
May be improv'd, and by Perfection crown'd.

Edmund.
This could I joy to hear, if grief of heart,
And poignant anguish for my private woes,
Each thought did not absorb. But what of this?

Chorus.
E'en now a pupil of this godlike art,
By good Humanicus instructed well
In all the useful knowledge of the science,
Essays thy sister's spirit to recal
From the dread portals of Eternity.

Edmund.
Assist him, Heav'n, and all ye heav'nly pow'rs!

Roldan.
And if a wretch so plung'd in guilt may dare
To Heav'n's bright throne uplift his suppliant eyes,
Oh crown with swift success the pious toil.

Edmund.
But wherefore stand I here, when I, perhaps,
Might to my dear-lov'd sister aid impart?
I'll haste and—.

Chorus.
—Hold! forbear! Dost thou not think
Thy unexpected presence must retard
Their needful care? Or say, can it be fit,
Should thy poor sister yet again respire,
Thou, who so long wert number'd with the dead,
Shouldst meet her op'ning eyes?

Edmund.
I yield, my friend.
But tell me: Dost thou think there's ground to hope?

Chorus.

If numerous instances of such success
As, if not vouch'd by witnesses of worth,
Would rank them with the idle tales of old
Of witchcraft and of magic, can suffice
As a foundation for so bold a hope,
Then will I say we ought not to despair.

For not long since a father and a son,
Whom cold and poverty impell'd to sleep
Within a potter's smokehouse, by the fumes
Were suffocated, and each vital pow'r,
Suspended, pent within their senseless breasts.
These did the Art Humane to life restore.
And, stranger still, when o'er the silver Trent
Destructive Winter spread her icy arms,
A little female, whom the semblance smooth
Beguil'd, with step advent'rous cross the stream
To bend her course, sunk thro', and by the tide
Swept far away, for half a dismal hour
Whelm'd in the aqueous element remain'd.
Yet even she was by the wonted means
To life restor'd, and to her frantic friends.

But should I ev'ry wond'rous case recite
Of those who from apparent death (produc'd

Or by emersion in the whelming tide,
By suffocation of unwholesome fumes,
By cord, by poison, or by other means)
Have rescued been, and to their friends restor'd,
Revolving Seasons to th'unfinish'd tale
Would pass all list'ning by.

Edmund.
Thy soothing words
On my benighted heart, reviving, pour
The cheerful lustre of fair dawning hope.

Roldan.
For me, a wretch! so far has coward Guilt
My soul unmann'd, I do not dare to hope.

Chorus.

Such the advantage virtue has o'er vice.

STROPHE I.

Wretched mortals! would ye know
Joy in weal, relief in woe,
Still to Virtue's sacred law
All your thoughts and actions square;
Then shall never black Despair
Your souls pervade with gloomy awe.

ANTISTROPHE I.

Hope—a virgin, chaste and pure,
Never, never will endure
To leave her blest ethereal seat,
To dwell with monsters guilt-defil'd;
But she loves, with influence mild,
To gild fair Virtue's sad retreat.

STROPHE II.

Thus in Edmund's guiltless mind
Dark Despondence cannot find
Gloomy space where she may rest;
Nor will Hope, with lightsome train,
Golden-tressed goddess! deign
To 'lumine Roldan's guilty breast.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Potent Pow'r, who rul'st on high!
Lord of earth, of sea, and sky!
Who disposest by thy word
All events, our griefs remove;
Nor let our hopes vain phantoms prove.
Oh be the fair to life restor'd!

EPODE.

And oh! with ev'ry joy those worthies crown,
Whom Christian Charity did first inspire
To fan in clay-cold breasts the dormant fire!
And kindly show'r each blessing down
On ev'ry pious head,
Who from the seeming dead
Has snatch'd the wretch, whom deep Despair
Impell'd Life's half-spun thread to tear,
Or whom some unforeseen event
To Death's half-open'd portals sent!

See the Honorary Medal given by the society to those who have restored Suspended Animation,

The reverse of the medal.

The Right Honourable the Earl of Stamford, President.

Lord Beauchamp, Lord Willoughby de Brooke, the Honourable Philip Pusey, Sir Joseph Andrews, Baronet, General Oglethorpe, &c. Vice-Presidents.

Reports for 1784. Case 480. page 107.

This is, I fear, not the only instance in which I have failed to make these facts appear tolerably in a poetical dress; perhaps it is not possible so to do. But it was my particular wish, by instancing various cases, to shew the public that the Humane Society did not confine their benevolent efforts to apparent deaths occasioned by one kind of accident only.

Case 482. page 111.