Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose :: :: University of Virginia Library

Constantia, now a Saint, was heav'nly fair,
Her Sex's Pride, and Theodosius' Care;
Whose Passion told, and by degrees approv'd,
She frown'd, she blush'd, she listen'd and she lov'd.

This Pair, renown'd for Beauty and for Truth,
The fruit of Virtue in the flow'r of Youth,
Awhile the Sweets of young Desire (enjoy'd
In unsuspected Innocence) employ'd:
Successive Years their mutual Ardour nurs'd,
New Charms discover'd, and improv'd the first.

But oh, the fate of Love with Faith profess'd!
So rarely found, and yet more rarely bless'd!
Of noble Ancestry the Lover came,
But, wanting wealth to traffick for the Dame,
Her Father's churlish heart in vain assail'd:
He laugh'd at Titles where Revenues fail'd.

Resolv'd his Daughter's secret soul to try,
Intently on her face he fix'd his eye,
And held her hand—And can it be? he said;
Dares Theodosius hope to share thy bed?
He dares: thy leaping pulse and blushing face
Speak his presumption, and thy own disgrace.
Good Heav'n! what Magic has bewitch'd my Child,
By nothing but Desert and Birth beguil'd?

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For where's the Boy's estate to balance mine?
Land to match Land; and Coin to heap on Coin?
I pass the feuds between his Sire and Me,
But never can forgive his Poverty.
Have you his Heart? return the worthless Stake,
That only Present he had power to make.
Nay, grant you stood engag'd by solemn vow;
Ev'n there the Learn'd a wise reserve allow:
Fondly 'twas made when none but Him you knew,
And only binds you till a wealthier sue:
By far a wealthier (thank your Father's care)
Soon shall you wed in old Antonio's Heir:
Of gen'rous soul and gentle blood is He,
Predestin'd yours by Fate's unchang'd decree:
Go, learn your duty there, by first obeying Me.
He ceas'd. Constantia, pale, without reply
Receiv'd her doom; as Wretches, loth to die,
When sternly warn'd of Dissolution near,
Resign'd and mute the doleful sentence hear.

But when th' abandon'd Lover, forc'd to part
From Her who long had rul'd his faithful heart,
Heard of a Rival, and the marriage made;
The day ev'n fix'd, nor by the Fair delay'd;
What wit can paint the raving Youth's distress?
Wit cannot paint, and only Love can guess.

By doubtful moons, along the gloomy shade
Of woods, resounding his laments, he stray'd:

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And ev'ry flood and ev'ry hill bewail
Constantia lost; Constantia ev'ry vale.
To the smooth beach or myrtle as he came,
Carv'd with the fond memorial of his flame,
He stopp'd and kneel'd, and kiss'd Constantia's name.
Stretch'd on the ground he lay in dumb despair;
Then starting furious up, invok'd the Fair,
Or rais'd his eyes to Heav'n, as begging pity there.
Or chas'd her, all in vain, o'er Lawns and Streams,
In visions of affright, and fancy-labouring dreams.

By stealth at length, of ev'ry hope berest,
In dead of night his native home he left.
The news, like Lightning, to Constantia fled,
By message from his Sire on message sped,
To seek him there. And is he gone? she cry'd,
Unknown his way, and dark despair his guide?
For-ever gone! when, to confirm her thought,
These words in writing from the Youth were brought.

Forgive a grief, too artless to endite:
I could not speak, and tremble while I write.
O! my Constantia, how am I distress'd!
Has Theodosius dream'd? and was he bless'd?
Say, can I live, and see your Angel-charms
The right, the treasure, of Another's arms?
O my Constantia! but I must resign:
Yet once I thought, and still must call you mine:
Is it a crime? be witness ev'ry Grove,
Where we no more shall meet, and talk of Love.

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Ah! cruel memory of past delight!
But soon it will be kind, and kill me quite.
Farewel—be happy—and for me—alas!
Forget that ever Theodosius was.
She read, and fainted. To her aid they ran:
She breath'd at last, and wildly thus began.

Nay, Theodosius, turn; ah! turn thee now:
They forc'd me once: but oh, my Soul! I vow
By all thy wrongs—where art thou? ha! undone!
Self-murder'd!—Mercy! Heav'n! for I had none.
Away! and let me have a vent for grief—
For rage—for blood—nor dare to name relief.
Would ye give That? recall the flying hours,
Give life to clay, and yesterday to flow'rs.
Or, since 'tis past th' irrevocable doom,
Conduct me quickly to my Lover's tomb:
Alas! I rave; for oh! no tomb has he,
A Prey to Wolves more pityless than Me.
Base that I was, and Traitress, to resign,
Dear Theodosius, what was only thine:
For thine, before my Father's hard command,
Thine was my heart by love, by vow my hand.

Then hear, oh hear me, Earth, and Heav'n above;
And chiefly Thou, my poor departed Love:
To Thee, to Thee I call; by Thee I swear,
Low as the dust, and soon to moulder there;
By the dear love of thy unpractis'd Youth,
Its artless transports, and prevailing truth;

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Ev'n by the love that wing'd thy desp'rate flight
To realms unknown, and everlasting night;
By its last wound, that to my Soul appears
Streaming with blood, as these poor eyes with tears
Shed now too late; by that avenging Pow'r,
At whose dread Altar, in a treach'rous hour,
I yielded to have been profanely sold
An Off'ring to my Father's Idol, Gold;
By all that's holy, dreadful, dear and good,
I'll ne'er become the Purchase of thy blood:
No time shall change me, and no hand shall join:
I was, I am, I will be only thine!

With such sincerity and warmth deny'd,
The hateful project of her Nuptials dy'd.
Mov'd by convenience rather than desire,
The Lover soon was pacify'd; the Sire
Gain'd his chief point, and kept his Hoards entire.

The Widow'd Fair a solemn Mourning kept;
Whole days she fasted, and whole nights she wept;
Till by degrees the storm that toss'd her mind,
Into a melancholy calm declin'd.
Forlorn at first, in penitence and pray'r
She sought for comfort, and she found it there;
Religion stamp'd her sorrow-melting heart;
Inspir'd new longings, and allay'd its smart;
And taught her watry eyes again to shine,
And tun'd her Soul anew to Love Divine;

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If by resemblance of a flame so chast,
The present Passion might beguile the past.

Thus, bent to travel for eternal day,
She chose a Convent, as the nearest way;
Where contemplation, free from care and noise,
In holy solitude the Soul employs,
To learn Heav'n's laws, and antedate its joys;
To clear and fix our intellectual eye,
And wind devotion up to ecstacy.

Her Sire, who lik'd a maintenance for life,
And deem'd a Nun less costly than a Wife,
Pour'd ready tears, as she her mind reveal'd,
And words like these his inward joy conceal'd.

Now may that Grace, which whispers thee within,
And thus inspires what to withstand were sin,
Arm me with Christian constancy, to bear
The sudden parting from a Child so dear!
Yet when you go, as you, alas! have vow'd,
You'll chuse a Nunnery that's well endow'd.
Lost to the world in a propitious hour,
My Child shall save her Soul—and I her Dow'r,
He softly added. She, as custom taught,
E'er yet Recluse, a Ghostly Father sought,
Her sad, sincere confession to receive,
Her doubts resolve, her agonies relieve;
A Father with distinguish'd Graces crown'd;
And whom she sought, in Theodosius found.

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Her Theodosius, doom'd for Years to pass
As dead with Her, (and dead to Her he was,
To Her and to the World) by Heav'n inspir'd,
To Convent shades and holy Life retir'd.

For as the Mind, on new pursuits employ'd
In room of lost delights, abhors a Void;
So this fair Soul, deny'd its first desire,
Found a fresh Object to engage its fire;
Wean'd from the world by woe, it fix'd above,
Exalted on the wings of heav'nly love.

Learn'd, holy, wise, of venerable fame,
(But Father Francis was his borrow'd name)
Long had he now the sacred Vestment wore;
And ne'er inquir'd, (for so resolv'd he swore)
Ah! could he ne'er have thought of lost Constantia more!

To Him, in his religious weeds unknown,
(His hooded head was shav'd, and beard o'ergrown)
His dear Constantia made her tender moan:
To Him, her once adoring Slave, she kneel'd,
And in these words her lab'ring soul reveal'd.

If, holy Father, to be here distress'd,
Seals the repenting Soul to heav'nly rest,
There's hope for Me in that immortal state;
For I, alas! am most unfortunate.
O! were That all, I might my tale pursue
Without a blush; but I am guilty too
Excuse these tears: the memory of One,
By too much love, and love of Me, undone,

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One whom I lov'd;—be witness, Heav'n, how dear—
You seem disturb'd, and I shall tire your ear.
But grief is eas'd by freedom to complain;
Ah wretched freedom! ease indulg'd in vain!
What shall I say? my Father's dire decree
And tyrant duty rent my Love from Me.
Another, then, his hated vows address'd;
To him (but spare my shame, and guess the rest)
I, Coward I consenting to be bound,
Gave my despairing Youth his mortal wound:
For oh! he disappear'd at once; but see
A surer proof, his dying Legacy.
Read, and imagine what that Letter meant,
(A Letter here she gave) the last he sent;
See there how fatal my refusal prov'd!
How much he bore! how tenderly he lov'd!
And oh! if Love, if Pity e'er you felt,
(For You can weep, and You begin to melt)
Let me indulge a grief so justly due:
My Theodosius! as too fond! too true!

In his dear loss my crime at full appear'd;
And think not, can you think I persever'd?
No, Father, no; believe it by the vow
That brings me a devoted Virgin now:
By—shall I add my tears? alas! they flow'd
Ev'n when I poorly broke the Faith I ow'd.
I still unmarry'd have his fate bewail'd:
His pray'rs were fruitless, but his blood prevail'd.

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In Cloisters now, my days that yet remain
I mean to end; and then I end my pain:
But shall I end it then?—the purging fires,
My guilty, blood-polluted Soul requires,
Flash in my face:—ah! Father, aid me here!
Is there a way on earth to wash me clear,
And make that Spectre Conscience disappear?
What shall I do to see the throne of Grace,
And Mercy shining in my Maker's face?
By daily Penance will I purge my stain,
And pray, and weep, and fast, and pray again:
Poor my attire, and coarse shall be my bread;
The brook my bev'rage, and the ground my bed.

Such is the thorny path to joys above;
But can I share 'em with my perish'd Love?
Or is he sentenc'd to atone the blow
Of black despair by never-ending woe?
Who can believe a forfeit so severe?
Sure, a forsaken Lover's hell is here.

O! for a gleam of hope! (would heav'n impart
So kind a cordial to my fainting heart)
That still, though distant far, in climes unknown,
He drew this vital air, and saw the Sun!
Some Angel then might guide the voice of Fame,
To carry to his ears Constantia's name;
To tell the pangs that for his loss I bore,
Tho' I ne'er saw—I would not see him more:

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Love, kindling at that Face so dearly known,
Might drive Religion from his ancient throne,
And hold no vows fo binding as his own.

As thus Constantia told her moving tale,
The Father started, and turn'd deadly pale:
In deep attention fix'd, awhile he view'd
The kneeling Fair; a gale of sighs ensu'd,
And tears unbid: And still the more he heard,
By just degrees the swelling grief appear'd,
Till, gushing in a flood, it pour'd adown his beard.
He smote his breast, whence issued, in a croud,
Sobs, murmurs, groans; his head to earth he bow'd,
With trembling shook his seat, and wept aloud.

Then in the broken eloquence of grief,
By starts he gave, or strove to give relief.

Why so o'erwhelm'd with care? have better chear—
Your heart's too tender—he you hold so dear—
I pity from my soul—but Heav'n decreed—
Wrath had its hour, and Mercy must succeed;
More Mercy far than your offence can need:
Tis not so heinous—I pronounce you free—
So may eternal goodness deal by Me.

He could no more. Admonish'd to return
The following day, she left him free to mourn.
Home in the bitterness of soul he went,
When thus conflicting passions found a vent.

What have I done? Constantia faithful still!
Heav'ns, we may mourn, though not dispute your will:

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How have ye try'd me! had I but delay'd
These weeds I now could tear, the lovely Maid
(Her I have ruin'd too) had then been mine:
O suff'ring Saints! fidelity Divine!
O Love! O Piety! my rending Heart
Obeys ye both; for each will have a part,
Yet neither be suffic'd; but 'twas my fate,
And thus, resign'd, I sink beneath its weight;
Thus, low and grov'ling on the ground, adore,
With heart as humble, Heaven's chastising pow'r.
How happy had I been, if curs'd alone!
But when I think what She has undergone,
The tender, dear, mistaken, martyr'd Fair!
Will she forgive the grief I made her bear?
She will: she, only she, had truth to grieve;
And she alone has goodness to forgive.

Thus pass'd the day, and restless thus the night,
Drawn into mournful length till dawning light;
When sleep unsought return'd with sweet surprize,
In kindlier dews to bathe his weeping eyes.

In sleep his anxious soul pursu'd the theme
That fix'd its waking thoughts, and form'd a dream,
Not idle, wild, or dark as those that, bred
From fuming vapours, croud the sickly head;
Or those the jumbled images create,
That on capricious Fancy's summons wait;
But lively and distinct, the messenger of fates.

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For, in a grove with fragrant breezes chear'd,
Constantia by a crystal spring appear'd:
The crystal spring receiv'd the tears she shed,
And (bending o'er it as she hung her head,
Propp'd on her hand) reflected him to view,
As nearer still with fancy'd haste he drew
Upstarting pleas'd, with wide-extended arms,
In flowing lawn that thinly veil'd the charms,
Her panting bosom half display'd, she ran,
And weeping, smiling on her Love, began.

O! dearer than the Light I view'd with pain,
Depriv'd of thee, so long desir'd in vain!
O! ever presents to my Mind! from whence
Art thou restor'd to my despairing Sense?
Life of my Life, and balm of Suff'rings past,
O! welcome, welcome to my arms at last.
But, why so chang'd thy form, that scarce I trace
The meagre Relics of my Lover's face?
This Habit too? thy Head devoutly bare?
Ah! frantic sally of unjust despair!
Lay not on my imagin'd change the blame;
For, bate the breaches in this tender frame,
Impair'd by grief for Thee, and I am still the same;
True to the sacred vows, enroll'd above,
Those mutual ties of our once mutual Love.
Why then? ah! why?—but yet we might retrieve,
Would You repent what I can still forgive.

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Away with these fantastic Weeds, design'd
For the lean body and the brain-sick mind.
Must Youth, like thine, be harrass'd by the Call
Of midnight bells; and pent within a stall?
Can heav'nly Beings sport with human woe?
And curse us with desires we must forego,
Deny'd to taste the blessings they bestow?
Just nature would another story tell;
Hear then her voice, and guard her Franchise well:
For once let Fancy in the least restrain
The lawful freedom Reason should maintain,
And never shall you bound her still increasing reign.
Trust not in pray'r, to plighted faith untrue;
But pity Me, and heav'n may pity You:
Nor urge th' engagement you so rashly past;
The first to Me absolves you from the last.
You thought me false; receive me, free from stain;
The cause is vanish'd, shall th' effect remain?
Behold! behold this unfrequented Grove,
The kind retreat of long-expecting Love:
How fresh the balmy air! how gay the view!
The zephyrs whisper, and the turtles coo:
'Tis Nature's voice; and all her works employ
Their various pow'rs, to court thy Soul to joy.
Haste then to joy, on flow'rs embracing laid;
Haste, ere the flow'rs, our transient emblems, fade:
Yet a few Years, and then thou must resign;
Yet a few hours, and fate may cut thy line:
O! snatch the Blessing now; for only Now is thine!

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She spoke. The Father eagerly essay'd
Close to his leaping heart to clasp the Maid:
Thrice he essay'd; but thrice the fleeting Fair,
Deluding his embrace, dissolv'd in air.

He almost wak'd with anguish and surprize:
His Angel interpos'd, and seal'd his eyes:
And seeming, as he slept, to gaze around,
Fast by his side again his Love he found.
But now, a figure more divine she took,
A Nun in habit, and a Saint in look:
For through the Veil, before her radiant Face,
A stream of glory, and angelic grace,
Ineffable as Heav'n, from whence it came,
Improv'd her beauty, and refin'd his flame.
In ecstacy he wept; when, lo! a Voice
Cry'd from a bright descending cloud, Rejoice:
Rejoice, ye Lovers, in the Nuptial tie,
Advanc'd by Virtue to your kindred sky.
Here ceas'd the voice, and strait the wond'ring Pair,
Snatch'd on the golden cloud aloft in air,
Disdain'd the less'ning Glofe, and wing'd their flight
Along th' ætherial blue to heav'nly light.
The skies unfolding pour'd a glorious throng;
Angels and Saints, who, stretch'd in order long,
In ranks on either side began the bridal song;
And, as Heav'n's azure circuit echo'd round,
So full the Choir, so lively was the sound,

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He wak'd; and list'ning lay a while, to hear
The dying notes that chim'd within his ear.

The Vision mann'd his Soul, before dismay'd,
And rally'd all her pow'rs to Virtue's aid:
Soft was his accent, and serene his look,
When the returning Dame he thus bespoke.

Why droops Constantia, when so soon to shine
In hallow'd White, the garb of Love divine!
Trust my experience; You prepare for joy,
Too plenteous not to fill, too pure to cloy.
There was a time when I lamented too,
The son of sorrow, and forlorn like You:
But when, abandon'd to extreme despair,
I fled for Refuge to the house of pray'r,
Retir'd from hopes and fears, from noise and strife,
To taste the calm delights of holy life,
My secret soul unutterably flow'd
With comfort, from the Spring above bestow'd;
And taught the world, no longer now its slave,
To grudge the solid bliss it never gave.
Debarr'd from sight (as Convent laws ordain)
We meet no more: but if, to ease your pain,
My meanness aught by writing can impart,
I promise a sincere and willing heart.
For You my vows shall day by day be made;
My care shall watch you, and my counsel aid,
To reconcile to peace your wounded Soul,
And urge your Christian speed to seize the goal:

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To nearer view the heav'nly prize display;
Clear the perplex'd, and smooth the rugged way.
Daughter, farewel. Henceforward banish cares;
Heav'n's goodness guide, and prosper all your pray'rs.

They parted; and the next arising Sun
Saw her Profess'd: the ceremony done,
Thus wrote the Father to the new-made Nun.

An Earnest of the comforts that attend
The late performance of your Vow, I send:
Your Theodosius lives: discharge the weight
Of Grief misplac'd on his imagin'd fate.
The Father whom so feelingly you mov'd
With your sad tale of faith, too well approv'd,
That Father is the man whom once you lov'd:
But to succeed to passion pure and true,
As yours has prov'd to Me, and mine to You,
Where could it be but to our Maker, due?
Then lay no more successless Love to heart;
Heav'n pains the worse, to save the better part;
Disposing, as a Father's care requires,
Both to our good, though not to our desires.
In Theodosius let the Lover die;
And Father Francis shall the Friend supply.

Her Abbess brought the note; Constantia knew
The hand, familiar to her former view.
Alarm'd, with trembling haste she read it o'er;
Then wonder'd at her ignorance before:

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Now she recall'd his face, his mien, his tone;
But most his sorrows might have made him known.
With lifted eyes (her eyes by stealth she dry'd)
She paus'd; then smiling,—'Tis enough! she cry'd:
He lives! he lives! and once again we meet!
Heav'n's ways are wond'rous, and its mercies great:
Happy, too happy, had we met before!
With comfort shall I live, and die with more.

Thus as, when Argive laws refus'd to grace
Those who with equal speed perform'd the race,
The consecrated Garland, hung on high,
Became an Off'ring to the Deity;
So in the course of Love, so fairly run,
Where either was the Prize which neither won,
God claim'd his great Prerogative, to gain
What both so dearly earn'd, but earn'd in vain.

Yet, bound by rules that mutual speech deny'd,
By frequent writing they that want supply'd:
And still the Letters, where they once were wrote,
Preserv'd with care, and with devotion fraught,
Read to the wond'ring Youth, their minds improve,
Wise to convince, affectionate to move;
The fairest Copies of seraphic Love.

But, thus, ere ten revolving Years were past,
A raging fever laid the region waste;
And, like the flames that not the temples spare,
Surpris'd, dissolv'd the consecrated Pair.

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The Father led the way; but, ere he went,
His benediction to the Sister sent,
In moving language, with his parting breath,
Was brought her with the tidings of his death.

Just on the wing Constantia's Soul appear'd,
When at the news her dying head she rear'd;
A joyful lustre o'er her cheeks it spread,
And kindled into bloom the sickly red;
Then falt'ring, with a faint low voice, she said;

Our course is run; and now for our reward,
Since Grace perform'd what Nature found so hard,
This only boon my last request I make;
'Twill please his Ghost, which I shall soon o'ertake;
And sure it cannot misbecome the vow,
Which, binding but for life, determines now.
We liv'd asunder; but within his tomb
Allow the dust of poor Constantia room.
In that cold bed no new divorce shall move
Me from my Friend; oh! let me say, my Love.

She spoke; nor long her fleeting Spirit stay'd;
But the same glorious day to Heav'n convey'd
The blameless Lover, and the faithful Maid;
At once to claim the Triumph that awaits
Their holy lives, and undivided fates;
While side by side, entomb'd, their Bodies lie,
And Virtuous Fame embalms their Memory.

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These lines inscrib'd their sacred marble keep;
“O'er this sad Stone, ye fair and pious, weep:
“Here Father Francis, Sister Constance, sleep,
“By flames of chaste desire for Heav'n refin'd;
“And, lovely in their lives, in death they join'd.”