 | Poems, on various subjects |  |
101
ADDRESSED TO REVENGE.
A FRAGMENT.
Why dost thou glare at me! holding the brand
Of Insult to my sight? Its burning pow'r
Scorches the eye of Virtue. Oh, be gone!
Thou dire tormentor of the injur'd soul.
Of Insult to my sight? Its burning pow'r
Scorches the eye of Virtue. Oh, be gone!
Thou dire tormentor of the injur'd soul.
I loathe thy curst acquaintance urg'd by thee,
The wounded Victim plucks the arrow forth,
Writhing with anguish strikes the guilty Foe,
Then groans in horrid sympathy. 'Tis thine,
To hang up human frailty to the view,
Of a poor pitiless World. Seize Virtue, fled,
And place the Fugitive full in the eye
Of the fond Fool that scorn'd her. O, Revenge!
This were a prospect, where thy tints would glow
With fatal warmth; but my cool spirit turns
From fire-ey'd Fury, tho' refulgent Truth
Might mingle with her flames. Cruel the hand!
Which tears the veil of Time from black Dishonour;
Or, with the iron pen of Justice, cuts
Her cypher on the scars of early Shame.
The wounded Victim plucks the arrow forth,
102
Then groans in horrid sympathy. 'Tis thine,
To hang up human frailty to the view,
Of a poor pitiless World. Seize Virtue, fled,
And place the Fugitive full in the eye
Of the fond Fool that scorn'd her. O, Revenge!
This were a prospect, where thy tints would glow
With fatal warmth; but my cool spirit turns
From fire-ey'd Fury, tho' refulgent Truth
Might mingle with her flames. Cruel the hand!
Which tears the veil of Time from black Dishonour;
Or, with the iron pen of Justice, cuts
Her cypher on the scars of early Shame.
I charge thee not with Inj'ries; 'tis not thou,
Canst ease my lab'ring heart: the wounds I feel,
In base Revenge, shall never find their cure.
My soul sits conscious of a nobler claim,
Firm in her full meridian, thence looks down,
Smiling on thy dark labours. Her strong height
Thou shalt not reach.—Then fly me, fell Revenge;
Seize more defenceless holds, where Honour mourns
Internal desolation. There assume
Malignant empire; fix thy burning throne
On injur'd Innocence; press thy hot foot
Upon the martyr'd friend; thy sceptre deck
With Serpents, while, with Gorgon pow'r, thou turn'st
The heart to adamant. Whole legions there
Shall hail thee; there vile Calumny sends forth
Red blasts of pestilence, which dim the eye
Of fair Opinion, while her pois'nous dews
Fall heavy on the frugal crop, that springs
From rough, uncultur'd Virtue. But, beware,
Ungentle Fiend! Ah, spare the slave of Fame,
Whose wishes, 'mid ideal banquets pine:
Be not loquacious on a tender fault,
Nor whisper aught of inadvertent Love.
Canst ease my lab'ring heart: the wounds I feel,
103
My soul sits conscious of a nobler claim,
Firm in her full meridian, thence looks down,
Smiling on thy dark labours. Her strong height
Thou shalt not reach.—Then fly me, fell Revenge;
Seize more defenceless holds, where Honour mourns
Internal desolation. There assume
Malignant empire; fix thy burning throne
On injur'd Innocence; press thy hot foot
Upon the martyr'd friend; thy sceptre deck
With Serpents, while, with Gorgon pow'r, thou turn'st
The heart to adamant. Whole legions there
Shall hail thee; there vile Calumny sends forth
Red blasts of pestilence, which dim the eye
Of fair Opinion, while her pois'nous dews
Fall heavy on the frugal crop, that springs
104
Ungentle Fiend! Ah, spare the slave of Fame,
Whose wishes, 'mid ideal banquets pine:
Be not loquacious on a tender fault,
Nor whisper aught of inadvertent Love.
| Poems, on various subjects | |