The Dance of Life A Poem, by the author of "Doctor Syntax;%" [i.e. William Combe] Illustrated with coloured engravings, by Thomas Rowlandson |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. | CHAPTER VI. THE RETURN. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
 | CHAPTER VI. THE RETURN. The Dance of Life |  |
187
CHAPTER VI. THE RETURN.
AS they stretch'd onward o'er the plains
Where proud, Imperial Austria reigns,
And were pursuing their design
To view the beauties of the Rhine.
Fate said, they must no farther roam:
A mournful summons call'd them home.
Our Henry's honour'd Father lay,
Stretch'd on his sickly bed a prey
To dire disease, whose mortal strife
Wag'd a fierce, threatening war with Life.
Sir William wish'd to see his Son
Before the work of Death was done:
T'would calm his pains and sooth his heart
If Heaven would grant him to impart,
With fond Affection's wak'ning power,
The counsels of a dying hour;
To give him, as he clos'd his race,
A farewell blessing and embrace.
Where proud, Imperial Austria reigns,
And were pursuing their design
To view the beauties of the Rhine.
Fate said, they must no farther roam:
A mournful summons call'd them home.
Our Henry's honour'd Father lay,
Stretch'd on his sickly bed a prey
To dire disease, whose mortal strife
Wag'd a fierce, threatening war with Life.
Sir William wish'd to see his Son
Before the work of Death was done:
T'would calm his pains and sooth his heart
If Heaven would grant him to impart,
188
The counsels of a dying hour;
To give him, as he clos'd his race,
A farewell blessing and embrace.
From rising to the setting Sun,
With ceaseless haste, they travell'd on.
Nor did they stop—but, when opprest,
Nature implor'd an hour of rest.
—But Death will not for trav'lers wait;
The arrow sped that, wing'd by Fate,
Ne'er fails to reach its destin'd aim,
And leaves of Life an empty name.
The best of Fathers was no more,
And all the Funeral dirges o'er
E'er they beheld the British shore.
With ceaseless haste, they travell'd on.
Nor did they stop—but, when opprest,
Nature implor'd an hour of rest.
—But Death will not for trav'lers wait;
The arrow sped that, wing'd by Fate,
Ne'er fails to reach its destin'd aim,
And leaves of Life an empty name.
The best of Fathers was no more,
And all the Funeral dirges o'er
E'er they beheld the British shore.
Henry to tenderness was fram'd,
And when the sad event was nam'd,
The bursting tears his Grief proclaim'd:
While, as the waters fill'd his eye,
The pallid look, the heaving sigh,
Display'd that poignancy of grief
Which spurns each offer of relief,
And seem'd to yield up all controul
O'er the strong workings of his soul.
—He would not on the maxim rest,
That what Heav'n does is for the best:
He ask'd not Reason to supply
A philosophic remedy:
Nay, his rack'd feelings seem'd to shun
Devotion's cry,—“Thy will be done.”
—His heart was kind but, strongly mov'd,
No common force of passion prov'd.
Here was his fault:—each tender sense
Was prone to sudden violence;
No happy medium they pursued:—
Though yet they tended all to good,
They would with equal force betray,
If they should take a different way.
A glance from the paternal eye
Would check the warm infirmity,
While the submission did not prove
A painful fear, but duteous love.
And when the sad event was nam'd,
The bursting tears his Grief proclaim'd:
While, as the waters fill'd his eye,
The pallid look, the heaving sigh,
189
Which spurns each offer of relief,
And seem'd to yield up all controul
O'er the strong workings of his soul.
—He would not on the maxim rest,
That what Heav'n does is for the best:
He ask'd not Reason to supply
A philosophic remedy:
Nay, his rack'd feelings seem'd to shun
Devotion's cry,—“Thy will be done.”
—His heart was kind but, strongly mov'd,
No common force of passion prov'd.
Here was his fault:—each tender sense
Was prone to sudden violence;
No happy medium they pursued:—
Though yet they tended all to good,
They would with equal force betray,
If they should take a different way.
A glance from the paternal eye
Would check the warm infirmity,
While the submission did not prove
A painful fear, but duteous love.
190
St. Foix, who knew his Pupil well,
Refrain'd as yet, his thoughts to tell.
His caution did not silence break,
But waited for that hour to speak;
When, with a cool and friendly art,
He might, at once, indulge the heart,
And call in Reason to his aid,
To give due force to what he said.
—The honour'd Parent was remov'd,
Whose looks, though clad in smiles reprov'd;
And, uttering not a word of blame,
To call forth penitence or shame,
When his Boy's mind was prone to riot,
Could keep each strong emotion quiet.
But now, the wise Corrector gone,
The sprightly Heir, thus left alone,
Might spurn all dictates but his own.
Now, by the stroke of Death set free,
He's left in perfect liberty;
Without a Father's guiding hand,
With flowing wealth at his command,
With every pleasure flitting round,
In every voice a flatt'ring sound;
And just at that alarming age
When as a bird, escap'd the cage,
Spreads the light wing and hastes to seize
Each object that is form'd to please,
Nor thinks the fruit that seems so fair,
Hides, in its leaves, a secret snare.
Refrain'd as yet, his thoughts to tell.
His caution did not silence break,
But waited for that hour to speak;
When, with a cool and friendly art,
He might, at once, indulge the heart,
And call in Reason to his aid,
To give due force to what he said.
—The honour'd Parent was remov'd,
Whose looks, though clad in smiles reprov'd;
And, uttering not a word of blame,
To call forth penitence or shame,
When his Boy's mind was prone to riot,
Could keep each strong emotion quiet.
But now, the wise Corrector gone,
The sprightly Heir, thus left alone,
Might spurn all dictates but his own.
Now, by the stroke of Death set free,
He's left in perfect liberty;
Without a Father's guiding hand,
With flowing wealth at his command,
191
In every voice a flatt'ring sound;
And just at that alarming age
When as a bird, escap'd the cage,
Spreads the light wing and hastes to seize
Each object that is form'd to please,
Nor thinks the fruit that seems so fair,
Hides, in its leaves, a secret snare.
St. Foix well knew the dang'rous state
That did on the young Henry wait.
He saw the tumult that oppress'd
Or rather rag'd within his breast,
And therefore left it to subside
As time might cool, or reason guide.
He watch'd the hour when Henry's mind
To grave remonstrance was inclin'd
And in a patient state to hear
A voice that Wisdom might revere.
Th'occasion came, and Mentor thus
Address'd the young Telemachus.
That did on the young Henry wait.
He saw the tumult that oppress'd
Or rather rag'd within his breast,
And therefore left it to subside
As time might cool, or reason guide.
He watch'd the hour when Henry's mind
To grave remonstrance was inclin'd
And in a patient state to hear
A voice that Wisdom might revere.
Th'occasion came, and Mentor thus
Address'd the young Telemachus.
192
“Think not, my Friend, that all is gone:
“Beneath the monumental stone
“Your Father sleeps, but still there lives
“Another parent, who survives,
“Your duties, and your cares to claim;
“She bears a Mother's tender name.
“Her sorrows must to you be known,
“And you will share them as your own.
“In one lamented loss you join:
“Your tears are her's—her tears are thine.
“—Does not her widow'd Form arise
“To call fresh streamlets to your eyes?
“From memory's dawn, until this hour
“When the dark clouds of sorrow lour,
“Is there a moment mark'd by time
“From cradled cries to manhood's prime,
“In which her love did not impart
“The grateful feeling to your heart?
“Does not your fancy seem to hear
“Her accents whisper'd in your ear,
“And while the tears gush down her cheek
“Do you not think you hear her speak?
“Your Father, and my Husband's gone
“But still there's left a darling son:
“And all my hope of future joy,
“I have none else—are in my Boy.
“Are you not, then, resolv'd to give
“That joy while Heaven shall bid her live?
“She was your honour'd Father's pride,
“And from the hour she was his bride
“But once he griev'd her,—when He died.
“The happiest pair of human kind!
“In them was all that grace combin'd,
“Which could to every virtue give
“A bright example how to live.
“If on the sacred word we rest,
“And who denies the high behest?
“He in the regions of the blest,
“The mighty power of Death subdued,
“Enjoys the glories of the good:—
“While she remains your love to share,
“And find your happiness her care.
“She lives, I fondly hope, to view
“His virtues all reviv'd in you.
“Be this your object, this your pride;—
“O let her wishes be your guide!
“For while her Henry she approves,
“His Life must be what Virtue loves.”
—These well-fram'd counsels gave relief,
And sooth'd the fervor of his grief.
“Beneath the monumental stone
“Your Father sleeps, but still there lives
“Another parent, who survives,
“Your duties, and your cares to claim;
“She bears a Mother's tender name.
“Her sorrows must to you be known,
“And you will share them as your own.
“In one lamented loss you join:
“Your tears are her's—her tears are thine.
“—Does not her widow'd Form arise
“To call fresh streamlets to your eyes?
“From memory's dawn, until this hour
“When the dark clouds of sorrow lour,
“Is there a moment mark'd by time
“From cradled cries to manhood's prime,
“In which her love did not impart
“The grateful feeling to your heart?
“Does not your fancy seem to hear
“Her accents whisper'd in your ear,
“And while the tears gush down her cheek
“Do you not think you hear her speak?
193
“But still there's left a darling son:
“And all my hope of future joy,
“I have none else—are in my Boy.
“Are you not, then, resolv'd to give
“That joy while Heaven shall bid her live?
“She was your honour'd Father's pride,
“And from the hour she was his bride
“But once he griev'd her,—when He died.
“The happiest pair of human kind!
“In them was all that grace combin'd,
“Which could to every virtue give
“A bright example how to live.
“If on the sacred word we rest,
“And who denies the high behest?
“He in the regions of the blest,
“The mighty power of Death subdued,
“Enjoys the glories of the good:—
“While she remains your love to share,
“And find your happiness her care.
“She lives, I fondly hope, to view
“His virtues all reviv'd in you.
194
“O let her wishes be your guide!
“For while her Henry she approves,
“His Life must be what Virtue loves.”
—These well-fram'd counsels gave relief,
And sooth'd the fervor of his grief.
Thus as they sat in solemn guise,
The native Mansion met their eyes;
And, as the scene their thoughts explore
The whirling wheels the trav'lers bore
In rapid motion to the door.
Here Henry saw his Mother stand;
Grief fill'd her eye,—joy wav'd her hand:
A widow she, all woe begone,
But still she saw her only Son:
He moaning a fond Father's care;
But still he saw his Mother there.
—She twin'd her arms around his neck,
And sigh'd as if her heart would break;—
But still her welcome offspring press'd
With rapture to her beating breast:
For what was lost, and what was given,
She bow'd, and offer'd praise to Heaven.
—This conflict sad 'tween joy and grief,
Found, in fond speech, a kind relief.
—At length he spoke—“'Twill be my pride
To take my Mother for my guide:
Of a fond Father thus bereft,
Thank Heaven, I have a Mother left;
And while she lives, no other care
Shall duty's warm endearments share.”
—Such was the promise he preferr'd;
And, better still,—he kept his word.
The native Mansion met their eyes;
And, as the scene their thoughts explore
The whirling wheels the trav'lers bore
In rapid motion to the door.
Here Henry saw his Mother stand;
Grief fill'd her eye,—joy wav'd her hand:
A widow she, all woe begone,
But still she saw her only Son:
He moaning a fond Father's care;
But still he saw his Mother there.
—She twin'd her arms around his neck,
And sigh'd as if her heart would break;—
But still her welcome offspring press'd
With rapture to her beating breast:
195
She bow'd, and offer'd praise to Heaven.
—This conflict sad 'tween joy and grief,
Found, in fond speech, a kind relief.
—At length he spoke—“'Twill be my pride
To take my Mother for my guide:
Of a fond Father thus bereft,
Thank Heaven, I have a Mother left;
And while she lives, no other care
Shall duty's warm endearments share.”
—Such was the promise he preferr'd;
And, better still,—he kept his word.
Sir William, when his end drew nigh,
And Nature told him he must die,
Felt that no duty was undone
But his last counsels to his Son.
These he employ'd, with holy care,
His closing period to prepare;
And Lady Grace, by his command,
Gave them to Henry's trembling hand:
When, with pale look, and solemn dread,
He took the roll, and thus he read.
And Nature told him he must die,
Felt that no duty was undone
But his last counsels to his Son.
These he employ'd, with holy care,
His closing period to prepare;
And Lady Grace, by his command,
Gave them to Henry's trembling hand:
196
He took the roll, and thus he read.
“E'er you this sacred gift receive
“Your Father will have ceas'd to live:
“I'm hast'ning fast unto the Bourn
“From which no Trav'ler can return:
“But e'er I to the Tomb depart,
“I write the counsels of my heart,
“And my last prayer devotion pours,
“That they may be engrav'd on your's.
“—Instructions sage refine the soul
“Conveying inward, as they roll,
“Impulse to Virtue, and impart
“What guides the mind and forms the heart.
“When morals fail, what stains disgrace
“The honours of the noblest race;
“For what are laws unless obey'd
“By the same virtues they were made.
“When Life is view'd with all its cares,
“When we feel what our nature shares,
“The truth strikes home upon the mind,
“That happiness is not design'd
“For this uncertain, transient state:
“Man should be good, and may be great;
“But perfect joy is only given
“To be the inhabitant of Heaven.
“What pleasures does the world hold forth?
“What is the gawdy nonsense worth,
“Which Fashion and gay Fortune weave
“The idle moments to deceive!
“What is it but a meteor's blaze
“That onward darts, and never stays?
“A vapour, rising in the air,
“And soon is lost dissolving there;—
“A bubble, swelling in the stream,
“That bursts while glitt'ring in the beam;—
“A spider's web, that treach'rous snare,
“Which e'en the slightest touch will tear!
“—In Spring, cold Winter melts away;
“The Spring is lost in Summer's ray:
“The Summer wastes in Autumn's reign,
“And hoary Winter comes again.
“The Moon renews her borrow'd light,
“And when Life's day sinks into night,
“Where all the rich, the great are laid
“We're nought but ashes and a shade :
“To Time all mortal things must bow—
“Henry will be what I am now.
“Your cheeks e'er hollow wrinkles seize,
“E'er their bright, rosy bloom decays,
“While youth yet rolls its vital flood,
“Learn to be virtuous—to be good.
“He is most happy, who can say
“To Virtue, I have liv'd to-day,
“And then, to baffle future sorrow,
“Resolves to live the same to-morrow.
“—Rest not on happiness below,
“For Man must have his share of woe:
“His lot distinct from brutes appears
“Less by his laughter than his tears.
“The famous Fabulist of old,
“Who so much wisdom did unfold,
“That lively, gay, instructor sage,
“Who held a glass for every age,
“Has said, in his fictitious way,
“That when Prometheus mix'd the clay
“To make the human form appear,
“He moisten'd it with many a tear.
“But Heaven is ever just and wise
“In all man's checquer'd destinies.
“Though Virtue's steps may lead to pain,
“And vexing Fortune's fretful reign;
“Yet, though she moves 'mid scenes of woe,
“Amid the thorns the roses blow,
“Which, when the wintry sorrow's past,
“Will still in bloom and beauty last.
“—With wisdom then thy heart relieve
“Whene'er that heart finds cause to grieve;
“With wisdom drawn from sacred lore
“And sages fam'd in days of yore.
“Nor seek the letter'd page alone;
“By calming many a bitter moan
“In other breasts, appease your own.
“With pleasure, by good sense refin'd,
“Unbend the labours of the mind.
“Without enthusiastic zeal,
“Let piety its deeds reveal:
“Let your devotion pure belie
“Each symptom of hypocrisy:
“From Charity let offerings flow
“Without a wish the poor should know
“The hand that does the boon bestow.
“Humility, in every state,
“Will make us good, will make us great;
“For real greatness does not spring
“From titles vain or earthly thing:
“By Virtue's power alone is given
“The true Nobility of Heaven.
“—Contentment, to our lot confin'd,
“Is the true wisdom of the mind;
“And when our passions are subdu'd,
“Truth will aver that we are good.
“—Shun Gaming, that most odious vice:
“Trust not to cards;—detest the dice:
“Look at your woods that crown the glade,
“In the proud stateliness of shade:
“By one unlucky, treacherous main
“They may lie prostrate on the plain.
“—Turn from the Syren's painted joy
“That only tempts thee to destroy:
“Health, Honour, Virtue, Fortune fly
“Where she displays her Sorcery.
“Your Father will have ceas'd to live:
“I'm hast'ning fast unto the Bourn
“From which no Trav'ler can return:
“But e'er I to the Tomb depart,
“I write the counsels of my heart,
“And my last prayer devotion pours,
“That they may be engrav'd on your's.
“—Instructions sage refine the soul
“Conveying inward, as they roll,
“Impulse to Virtue, and impart
“What guides the mind and forms the heart.
“When morals fail, what stains disgrace
“The honours of the noblest race;
“For what are laws unless obey'd
“By the same virtues they were made.
“When Life is view'd with all its cares,
“When we feel what our nature shares,
197
“That happiness is not design'd
“For this uncertain, transient state:
“Man should be good, and may be great;
“But perfect joy is only given
“To be the inhabitant of Heaven.
“What pleasures does the world hold forth?
“What is the gawdy nonsense worth,
“Which Fashion and gay Fortune weave
“The idle moments to deceive!
“What is it but a meteor's blaze
“That onward darts, and never stays?
“A vapour, rising in the air,
“And soon is lost dissolving there;—
“A bubble, swelling in the stream,
“That bursts while glitt'ring in the beam;—
“A spider's web, that treach'rous snare,
“Which e'en the slightest touch will tear!
“—In Spring, cold Winter melts away;
“The Spring is lost in Summer's ray:
“The Summer wastes in Autumn's reign,
“And hoary Winter comes again.
198
“And when Life's day sinks into night,
“Where all the rich, the great are laid
“We're nought but ashes and a shade :
“To Time all mortal things must bow—
“Henry will be what I am now.
“Your cheeks e'er hollow wrinkles seize,
“E'er their bright, rosy bloom decays,
“While youth yet rolls its vital flood,
“Learn to be virtuous—to be good.
“He is most happy, who can say
“To Virtue, I have liv'd to-day,
“And then, to baffle future sorrow,
“Resolves to live the same to-morrow.
“—Rest not on happiness below,
“For Man must have his share of woe:
199
“Less by his laughter than his tears.
“The famous Fabulist of old,
“Who so much wisdom did unfold,
“That lively, gay, instructor sage,
“Who held a glass for every age,
“Has said, in his fictitious way,
“That when Prometheus mix'd the clay
“To make the human form appear,
“He moisten'd it with many a tear.
“But Heaven is ever just and wise
“In all man's checquer'd destinies.
“Though Virtue's steps may lead to pain,
“And vexing Fortune's fretful reign;
“Yet, though she moves 'mid scenes of woe,
“Amid the thorns the roses blow,
“Which, when the wintry sorrow's past,
“Will still in bloom and beauty last.
“—With wisdom then thy heart relieve
“Whene'er that heart finds cause to grieve;
“With wisdom drawn from sacred lore
“And sages fam'd in days of yore.
200
“By calming many a bitter moan
“In other breasts, appease your own.
“With pleasure, by good sense refin'd,
“Unbend the labours of the mind.
“Without enthusiastic zeal,
“Let piety its deeds reveal:
“Let your devotion pure belie
“Each symptom of hypocrisy:
“From Charity let offerings flow
“Without a wish the poor should know
“The hand that does the boon bestow.
“Humility, in every state,
“Will make us good, will make us great;
“For real greatness does not spring
“From titles vain or earthly thing:
“By Virtue's power alone is given
“The true Nobility of Heaven.
“—Contentment, to our lot confin'd,
“Is the true wisdom of the mind;
“And when our passions are subdu'd,
“Truth will aver that we are good.
201
“Trust not to cards;—detest the dice:
“Look at your woods that crown the glade,
“In the proud stateliness of shade:
“By one unlucky, treacherous main
“They may lie prostrate on the plain.
“—Turn from the Syren's painted joy
“That only tempts thee to destroy:
“Health, Honour, Virtue, Fortune fly
“Where she displays her Sorcery.
“Chaste woman is life's greatest treasure:
“Make her thy joy, but not thy pleasure:
“Howe'er array'd in Beauty's charms
“Yield not to passion's wild alarms:
“Let reason guide thee to her arms.
“All that the tender sex supplies
“Ingratitude alone denies.
“Without their aid Life's earliest breath
“Would be but the sad sigh of death:
“And 'tis their various charm that cheers
“The current of Life's riper years:
“From them each tender care is found,
“When Death prepares the fatal wound.
“These truths I've felt, I dare avow,
“Throughout my Life,—and feel them now.
“Thy Mother will the example prove,
“And shew you what you ought to love.
“To duty and affection true,
“Keep her for ever in thy view.
“From the world's foul contagion free,
“Love her;—and oh,—Remember me.
“—Heaven, in its goodness, ever wise,
“Keeps from the ken of human eyes,
“What lives in future destinies.
“But use the present as 'tis given:
“Be good—and leave the rest to Heaven.
“Make her thy joy, but not thy pleasure:
“Howe'er array'd in Beauty's charms
“Yield not to passion's wild alarms:
“Let reason guide thee to her arms.
“All that the tender sex supplies
“Ingratitude alone denies.
“Without their aid Life's earliest breath
“Would be but the sad sigh of death:
“And 'tis their various charm that cheers
“The current of Life's riper years:
202
“When Death prepares the fatal wound.
“These truths I've felt, I dare avow,
“Throughout my Life,—and feel them now.
“Thy Mother will the example prove,
“And shew you what you ought to love.
“To duty and affection true,
“Keep her for ever in thy view.
“From the world's foul contagion free,
“Love her;—and oh,—Remember me.
“—Heaven, in its goodness, ever wise,
“Keeps from the ken of human eyes,
“What lives in future destinies.
“But use the present as 'tis given:
“Be good—and leave the rest to Heaven.
“Eternal Lord of Life and Death!
“To thee I yield my parting breath!
“Grateful that I possess the power
“To sanctify this awful hour:—
“Grateful for thy protecting care
“I offer up my dying prayer.
“That my weak voice was us'd to raise
“Its humble hymnings to thy praise,
“For all thy mercies free bestow'd,
“When Life with health and vigour glow'd,
“Strengthens my hope when thus I lay,
“Expecting Death to seize its prey;
“And bids me dare address thy throne
“To ask thy mercies for my Son:—
“And may thy Holy Will be done!”
“To thee I yield my parting breath!
“Grateful that I possess the power
“To sanctify this awful hour:—
“Grateful for thy protecting care
“I offer up my dying prayer.
203
“Its humble hymnings to thy praise,
“For all thy mercies free bestow'd,
“When Life with health and vigour glow'd,
“Strengthens my hope when thus I lay,
“Expecting Death to seize its prey;
“And bids me dare address thy throne
“To ask thy mercies for my Son:—
“And may thy Holy Will be done!”
Henry awhile in silence stood;
Awhile indulg'd the solemn mood:—
Then read and wept, and read again;
Nor did He read or weep in vain.
'Twas not a bursting, transient sorrow
That comes to-day and goes to-morrow:
His Father's words, and thus addrest,
Fix'd a firm purpose in his breast.
He vow'd that it should be his pride
To take that paper for his guide;
That its wise counsels should prevail
Till reason or till life should fail.
Awhile indulg'd the solemn mood:—
Then read and wept, and read again;
Nor did He read or weep in vain.
'Twas not a bursting, transient sorrow
That comes to-day and goes to-morrow:
His Father's words, and thus addrest,
Fix'd a firm purpose in his breast.
He vow'd that it should be his pride
To take that paper for his guide;
That its wise counsels should prevail
Till reason or till life should fail.
204
Sir Henry, as already told,
Was fram'd not in a common mould;
To honour's laws was ever true,
Nor shunn'd what duty bade him do.
Calm to resolve, his steady mind,
When once to well-weigh'd views inclin'd,
Fail'd not in one strait line to move
Of friendship, duty, and of love,
As many a future verse will prove.
—But yet no friend possess'd his heart,
Nor there had Love transfix'd a dart:
Duty was all he now would own,
Clad in affection it was shown,
Without a moment's pause, to one,
His widow'd Mother: she possess'd
Each feeling of his virtuous breast.
His thoughts no worldly passion mov'd,
The life she led, that life he lov'd:
To sooth her care he ever plied
His studious moments by her side;
And many a month they liv'd alone,
A widow'd wife, a faithful son.
—St. Foix, to every purpose just,
Resign'd with pride his sacred trust:
He had his interests to pursue,
And long ago had said adieu.
Granny was gone, and round her tomb
The summer flowers were seen to bloom.
—Though Gravely came when he was able,
To court the Knight, and bless the table:
When he would keenly quote the page
Of Roman or of Grecian sage.
The only sport Sir Henry woo'd
To recreate his solitude,
Was, when the Sun bedeck'd the morn,
To chase the deer with hound and horn.
But, while the hunters' cries resound
To urge the clamours of the hound,
While the loud joys the echos bear,
And he was lost to every care,
Amid th'harmonious din, his breast
Receiv'd an unsuspected guest:
For Cupid, from some bowery tree,
Display'd his cunning archery:—
The shaft, purloin'd from Cælia's eyes,
Swift to its destin'd object flies:
The dart, with Love's soft venom arm'd,
The gentle Henry's bosom warm'd.
—Cælia, a tender mother lost,
Was now a jovial father's boast:
A Nimrod he, but feeble grown,
No more was as a sportsman known;
But, till the gout assum'd its reign,
He led the chase on every plain;
And now, proclaim'd, in bursts of glee,
His daughter's feats of chivalry,
And thought all titles ought to yield
To Cælia, Dian of the field:—
Nor did the Sylvan goddess bear
A mind more chaste, a form more fair.
The bashful blood adorn'd her cheek,
The auburn tresses cloath'd her neck,
And Beauty's queen, with all her guile,
Could not surpass her cherub smile.
Her dulcet voice, her winning air
Might tempt a hermit from his prayer.
No daring Amazon was she,
But clad in gay simplicity:
Nor was she wanting in each grace,
That mark'd the Heiress of a race
Whose lineage long had borne the name
Of many a knight and noble dame:
While her enliven'd form enshrin'd
The sense and lustre of the mind.
—When Henry, with his sporting train,
Enjoy'd the pleasures of the plain,
It happen'd oft the lovely fair
Appear'd like a Diana there.
And now it was his constant pride
To gallop on by Cælia's side:
To guide her through each dubious course,
Or check the ardor of her horse;
While she in spirits brisk and gay,
Follow'd where'er he led the way.
She first his admiration mov'd,
But 'twas not long before he lov'd.
When the chase paus'd, or it was o'er,
And hounds and horns were heard no more,
They on their breathing horses sat,
And join'd in sentimental chat;
Nor did he fail in gallant state,
T'escort her to her mansion gate.
—My muse, an half-bred, honest jade,
Unknowing in the tricks of trade,
Would often to my pen reveal
What real muses would not tell;
At least their secrets would confine
To a more high-ton'd lyre than mine.
She told me that in Cælia's heart
Cupid had also plac'd a dart,
Which, though not tipt with sleepless anguish,
Caus'd her fine azure eyes to languish;
And heighten'd every native grace
When the horn summon'd to the chase:
Nay, it was thought, the country round,
That the young Knight a bride had found.
Was fram'd not in a common mould;
To honour's laws was ever true,
Nor shunn'd what duty bade him do.
Calm to resolve, his steady mind,
When once to well-weigh'd views inclin'd,
Fail'd not in one strait line to move
Of friendship, duty, and of love,
As many a future verse will prove.
—But yet no friend possess'd his heart,
Nor there had Love transfix'd a dart:
Duty was all he now would own,
Clad in affection it was shown,
Without a moment's pause, to one,
His widow'd Mother: she possess'd
Each feeling of his virtuous breast.
His thoughts no worldly passion mov'd,
The life she led, that life he lov'd:
To sooth her care he ever plied
His studious moments by her side;
And many a month they liv'd alone,
A widow'd wife, a faithful son.
205
Resign'd with pride his sacred trust:
He had his interests to pursue,
And long ago had said adieu.
Granny was gone, and round her tomb
The summer flowers were seen to bloom.
—Though Gravely came when he was able,
To court the Knight, and bless the table:
When he would keenly quote the page
Of Roman or of Grecian sage.
The only sport Sir Henry woo'd
To recreate his solitude,
Was, when the Sun bedeck'd the morn,
To chase the deer with hound and horn.
But, while the hunters' cries resound
To urge the clamours of the hound,
While the loud joys the echos bear,
And he was lost to every care,
Amid th'harmonious din, his breast
Receiv'd an unsuspected guest:
For Cupid, from some bowery tree,
Display'd his cunning archery:—
206
Swift to its destin'd object flies:
The dart, with Love's soft venom arm'd,
The gentle Henry's bosom warm'd.
—Cælia, a tender mother lost,
Was now a jovial father's boast:
A Nimrod he, but feeble grown,
No more was as a sportsman known;
But, till the gout assum'd its reign,
He led the chase on every plain;
And now, proclaim'd, in bursts of glee,
His daughter's feats of chivalry,
And thought all titles ought to yield
To Cælia, Dian of the field:—
Nor did the Sylvan goddess bear
A mind more chaste, a form more fair.
The bashful blood adorn'd her cheek,
The auburn tresses cloath'd her neck,
And Beauty's queen, with all her guile,
Could not surpass her cherub smile.
Her dulcet voice, her winning air
Might tempt a hermit from his prayer.
207
But clad in gay simplicity:
Nor was she wanting in each grace,
That mark'd the Heiress of a race
Whose lineage long had borne the name
Of many a knight and noble dame:
While her enliven'd form enshrin'd
The sense and lustre of the mind.
—When Henry, with his sporting train,
Enjoy'd the pleasures of the plain,
It happen'd oft the lovely fair
Appear'd like a Diana there.
And now it was his constant pride
To gallop on by Cælia's side:
To guide her through each dubious course,
Or check the ardor of her horse;
While she in spirits brisk and gay,
Follow'd where'er he led the way.
She first his admiration mov'd,
But 'twas not long before he lov'd.
When the chase paus'd, or it was o'er,
And hounds and horns were heard no more,
208
And join'd in sentimental chat;
Nor did he fail in gallant state,
T'escort her to her mansion gate.
—My muse, an half-bred, honest jade,
Unknowing in the tricks of trade,
Would often to my pen reveal
What real muses would not tell;
At least their secrets would confine
To a more high-ton'd lyre than mine.
She told me that in Cælia's heart
Cupid had also plac'd a dart,
Which, though not tipt with sleepless anguish,
Caus'd her fine azure eyes to languish;
And heighten'd every native grace
When the horn summon'd to the chase:
Nay, it was thought, the country round,
That the young Knight a bride had found.
Each wish that Henry e'er possess'd
Was pour'd into his mother's breast:
He, therefore, fail'd not to impart
The secret of his captur'd heart.
—Poor Lady Grace, whose health declin'd
Was, to the will of Heaven resign'd:
For she foreboded as it prov'd,
That she should shortly be remov'd;
Nor did her spirit fear the doom
To join her husband in the tomb.
She had of Heaven one boon to crave,
E'er she descended to the grave,
Which was, to see her Henry join'd
To one, whose graces, virtues, mind,
Were such as Cælia's self possess'd.
Oft, she exclaim'd—“Were I so bless'd,
“All other earthly hopes would cease,
“And I should then depart in peace.
“The sacred bond of wedded love
“Would my dear Henry's Saviour prove;
“And, from the world's delusive ways,
“Preserve him through his future days.
“Alone, what fortune he may find
“With his warm heart and active mind;
“If left alone, what secret snares
“The world for that dear Boy prepares
“Alarms my thoughts; while to my fears,
“The world with all its wiles appears.
“His Father's dying words declar'd,
“That all the blessings he had shar'd;
“Each evil he had set at nought,
“And the good deeds which he had wrought,
“With all the virtues Heaven bestow'd,
“He to an earthly Hymen owed.
“To honour, and to virtue true,
“May Henry the same path pursue.”
—Thus pass'd she many an anxious hour:
What wonder then when Hymen's bower
Seem'd in the distant view to rise
That tears of joy burst from her eyes!
What wonder her impatient voice
Besought him to secure his choice;
Nor let his proffer'd love to stay
Another hesitating day.
“Employ,” she said, “to-morrow's sun—
“I breathe not till the deed is done.”
Was pour'd into his mother's breast:
209
The secret of his captur'd heart.
—Poor Lady Grace, whose health declin'd
Was, to the will of Heaven resign'd:
For she foreboded as it prov'd,
That she should shortly be remov'd;
Nor did her spirit fear the doom
To join her husband in the tomb.
She had of Heaven one boon to crave,
E'er she descended to the grave,
Which was, to see her Henry join'd
To one, whose graces, virtues, mind,
Were such as Cælia's self possess'd.
Oft, she exclaim'd—“Were I so bless'd,
“All other earthly hopes would cease,
“And I should then depart in peace.
“The sacred bond of wedded love
“Would my dear Henry's Saviour prove;
“And, from the world's delusive ways,
“Preserve him through his future days.
“Alone, what fortune he may find
“With his warm heart and active mind;
210
“The world for that dear Boy prepares
“Alarms my thoughts; while to my fears,
“The world with all its wiles appears.
“His Father's dying words declar'd,
“That all the blessings he had shar'd;
“Each evil he had set at nought,
“And the good deeds which he had wrought,
“With all the virtues Heaven bestow'd,
“He to an earthly Hymen owed.
“To honour, and to virtue true,
“May Henry the same path pursue.”
—Thus pass'd she many an anxious hour:
What wonder then when Hymen's bower
Seem'd in the distant view to rise
That tears of joy burst from her eyes!
What wonder her impatient voice
Besought him to secure his choice;
Nor let his proffer'd love to stay
Another hesitating day.
“Employ,” she said, “to-morrow's sun—
“I breathe not till the deed is done.”
211
The morrow was the hunting morn,
And Phœbus did the hills adorn:
The hunters met, the sport to share,
And the lov'd Cælia too was there.
She smil'd, nor did Sir Henry fear
To tell his wishes in her ear.
He lur'd her to the verdant glade,
And 'neath the beeches spreading shade,
He told his tale: Auspicious she
Thus answer'd in soft sympathy.
“Let but my father hear your claim,
“He loves your virtues and your name:
“When once to him your heart is known
“Th'obedient Cælia is your own.”
—'Twas all he wish'd: and now the deer
Pass'd swiftly by: the hunters cheer
With joy tumultuous, and the gale
Breathes harmony throughout the vale;
While, with the clamours of the hound,
The forests and the hills resound.
Cælia's impatient courser, bred
To the swift chase, threw up his head
And paw'd the ground: with redd'ning eyes
And ears erect, away he flies:
No fears within her breast prevail
Though down the hill or o'er the dale:
Though stretching by the green-wood's side,
Or where the pebbly streamlets glide
He push'd his course: but sad to tell,
His feet gave way, he fiercely fell.
The lovely maid was rudely thrown,
The spot was thick with pointed stone,
And on her forehead, white as snow,
Death gave the inevitable blow.
In one sad moment life was past:
The stroke was struck, she breath'd her last.
Dim was the lustre of her eye,
Pale was her cheek of rosy dye,
And set her teeth of ivory.
—Here I shall leave the heart to feel
What my weak numbers cannot tell.
And Phœbus did the hills adorn:
The hunters met, the sport to share,
And the lov'd Cælia too was there.
She smil'd, nor did Sir Henry fear
To tell his wishes in her ear.
He lur'd her to the verdant glade,
And 'neath the beeches spreading shade,
He told his tale: Auspicious she
Thus answer'd in soft sympathy.
“Let but my father hear your claim,
“He loves your virtues and your name:
“When once to him your heart is known
“Th'obedient Cælia is your own.”
—'Twas all he wish'd: and now the deer
Pass'd swiftly by: the hunters cheer
With joy tumultuous, and the gale
Breathes harmony throughout the vale;
While, with the clamours of the hound,
The forests and the hills resound.
Cælia's impatient courser, bred
To the swift chase, threw up his head
212
And ears erect, away he flies:
No fears within her breast prevail
Though down the hill or o'er the dale:
Though stretching by the green-wood's side,
Or where the pebbly streamlets glide
He push'd his course: but sad to tell,
His feet gave way, he fiercely fell.
The lovely maid was rudely thrown,
The spot was thick with pointed stone,
And on her forehead, white as snow,
Death gave the inevitable blow.
In one sad moment life was past:
The stroke was struck, she breath'd her last.
Dim was the lustre of her eye,
Pale was her cheek of rosy dye,
And set her teeth of ivory.
—Here I shall leave the heart to feel
What my weak numbers cannot tell.
Sir Henry, with distracted mien,
Awhile hung o'er the dismal scene,
What though his heart with anguish bled,
As he beheld his Cælia dead;
While in pale silence he survey'd
The havoc Death of beauty made,
With an alarming sorrow fraught,
His mother press'd upon his thought.
“How can I force myself to go
“And tell her such a tale of woe,
“When she does her fond hopes employ
“To hear th'expected tale of joy!
“What will that angel woman feel
“When I this dismal scene reveal?
“How can I make these horrors known
“To save her heart, and calm my own?
“How will her weak, decaying frame
“Sink at the sound of Cælia's name?
“What will distraction let me do!
“Reason is lost in the review
“Of the sad changes of the hour
“Which robs reflection of its power.
“O what a world of pain is here!
“Nor does one glimm'ring ray appear,
“With its faint beam, the gloom to cheer.
“Benignant Heaven, receive my prayer!
“O give me strength this hour to bear;
“And grant my steps may pass secure
“Through the fierce ordeal I endure.”
Awhile hung o'er the dismal scene,
213
As he beheld his Cælia dead;
While in pale silence he survey'd
The havoc Death of beauty made,
With an alarming sorrow fraught,
His mother press'd upon his thought.
“How can I force myself to go
“And tell her such a tale of woe,
“When she does her fond hopes employ
“To hear th'expected tale of joy!
“What will that angel woman feel
“When I this dismal scene reveal?
“How can I make these horrors known
“To save her heart, and calm my own?
“How will her weak, decaying frame
“Sink at the sound of Cælia's name?
“What will distraction let me do!
“Reason is lost in the review
“Of the sad changes of the hour
“Which robs reflection of its power.
214
“Nor does one glimm'ring ray appear,
“With its faint beam, the gloom to cheer.
“Benignant Heaven, receive my prayer!
“O give me strength this hour to bear;
“And grant my steps may pass secure
“Through the fierce ordeal I endure.”
Now, as he took his slow way home,
Foreboding troubles yet to come,
In his afflicted mind he weigh'd
The various modes might be essay'd
To blunt the sharpness of the dart
Which soon must pierce his mother's heart:
But the sad story did not wait
Till he had reach'd his mansion gate;
On a swift pinion it had flown
To Lady Grace th'event was known:
She fainted, sigh'd, at length she wept,
And then repos'd as if she slept:
When all her anxious cares were o'er,
She slept, alas, to wake no more.
—Sir Henry's heart was apt to melt
At any woe which others felt:
For 'till this hour he had not known
Any deep sorrow of his own.
But now no words express'd his grief;
No bursting tears afford relief:
The spectre of a murder'd man,
In fancy's eye, so pale and wan,
Displays his picture as he stood,
By this so sudden stroke subdu'd.
His mind receiv'd a dead'ning wound
That did each active sense astound.
With languid step, and shorten'd breath,
He now drew nigh the couch of death;
There silent stood like one amaz'd,
As on the breathless form he gaz'd
Of her who had so lately press'd
The happy Henry to her breast.
O what a doleful change was there:
What sorrow did each visage wear!
The tears now flow'd from every eye,
And every bosom heav'd a sigh;
While he, who felt the deepest woe,
Could not persuade one tear to flow.
Sleep fled his lids; and, like a sprite,
He pac'd the gallery through the night;
But wearied nature sought repose,
And sacred reason sooth'd his woes.
—The mournful dirges now remain'd
And e'en that trial he sustain'd,
Till from the tower death's iron tongue
With awful sound, its summons rung;
And, as it paus'd, the distant bell
Threw to the gale his Cælia's knell.
These lovely women, in one hour,
Yielded to Death's insatiate power;
And the same evening's awful gloom
Consign'd them to the silent tomb.
This unexpected signal shook
His firm resolve: nor could he brook
The two-fold sorrow.—Many a day
His manly spirits were the prey
Of deep dejection; which was fed
By the secluded life he led.
—His father's good old neighbours came
With kind condolance: some to blame
His yielding mind; while others strove,
With livelier thoughts, their wish to prove;
And urg'd him to those pastimes gay
Which gild the country 'Squire's day.
But still they all one counsel gave,
To play the man, nor be a slave
To thoughts which would a woman shame:
Or they united to exclaim,
“Stay, stay not here, with haggard mien:
“Go, seek the world, and change the scene;
“With fortune, figure, talents blest,
“Fear not; for Time will do the rest.”
“—This may be right,” Old Gravely said,
But added, as he shook his head,
“Where'er you go, my generous Friend,
“May Providence your steps attend:
“But keep your Father in your mind,
“Nor leave his dying words behind.”
Foreboding troubles yet to come,
In his afflicted mind he weigh'd
The various modes might be essay'd
To blunt the sharpness of the dart
Which soon must pierce his mother's heart:
But the sad story did not wait
Till he had reach'd his mansion gate;
On a swift pinion it had flown
To Lady Grace th'event was known:
She fainted, sigh'd, at length she wept,
And then repos'd as if she slept:
215
She slept, alas, to wake no more.
—Sir Henry's heart was apt to melt
At any woe which others felt:
For 'till this hour he had not known
Any deep sorrow of his own.
But now no words express'd his grief;
No bursting tears afford relief:
The spectre of a murder'd man,
In fancy's eye, so pale and wan,
Displays his picture as he stood,
By this so sudden stroke subdu'd.
His mind receiv'd a dead'ning wound
That did each active sense astound.
With languid step, and shorten'd breath,
He now drew nigh the couch of death;
There silent stood like one amaz'd,
As on the breathless form he gaz'd
Of her who had so lately press'd
The happy Henry to her breast.
O what a doleful change was there:
What sorrow did each visage wear!
216
And every bosom heav'd a sigh;
While he, who felt the deepest woe,
Could not persuade one tear to flow.
Sleep fled his lids; and, like a sprite,
He pac'd the gallery through the night;
But wearied nature sought repose,
And sacred reason sooth'd his woes.
—The mournful dirges now remain'd
And e'en that trial he sustain'd,
Till from the tower death's iron tongue
With awful sound, its summons rung;
And, as it paus'd, the distant bell
Threw to the gale his Cælia's knell.
These lovely women, in one hour,
Yielded to Death's insatiate power;
And the same evening's awful gloom
Consign'd them to the silent tomb.
This unexpected signal shook
His firm resolve: nor could he brook
The two-fold sorrow.—Many a day
His manly spirits were the prey
217
By the secluded life he led.
—His father's good old neighbours came
With kind condolance: some to blame
His yielding mind; while others strove,
With livelier thoughts, their wish to prove;
And urg'd him to those pastimes gay
Which gild the country 'Squire's day.
But still they all one counsel gave,
To play the man, nor be a slave
To thoughts which would a woman shame:
Or they united to exclaim,
“Stay, stay not here, with haggard mien:
“Go, seek the world, and change the scene;
“With fortune, figure, talents blest,
“Fear not; for Time will do the rest.”
“—This may be right,” Old Gravely said,
But added, as he shook his head,
“Where'er you go, my generous Friend,
“May Providence your steps attend:
“But keep your Father in your mind,
“Nor leave his dying words behind.”
| CHAPTER VI. THE RETURN. The Dance of Life | |