Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

When Tullia, with heart-rending sighs,
Exclaims from forth the neighb'ring dale,
“Do not, poor Sheep, with lifted eyes,
“And mournful bleatings, fondly wail.

“How small your loss to mine compar'd!
“Your Lambkin ne'er in smiles exprest
“It's anxious love—nor e'er was heard
“With songs to soothe it's dam to rest.

“A few sad hours o'erblown—again
“Your pulse with wonted glee shall beat,
“Again you'll cheerful, crop the plain,
“Again with artless music bleat.

“You have no Celia to lament,
“No poor betray'd and murder'd child,
“Whose heart, tho' pure, by shame was rent,
“By Man, than Vulture worse, beguil'd.

“Fair as the summer's orient beam,
“That speaks the rising Phœbus nigh,
“Modest as violets o'er the stream,
“That humbly bend with timid eye;

“Unsullied as the virgin-snow,
“Sequester'd on the clifted hill,
“As melting too—when Pity's glow
“Caus'd thro' her eyes her soul distill;

“Yet lively as the bounding Fawn,
“Fearless of Hunter's snare or gun,
“That sports around the flow'ry lawn,
“And licks the hand, which wise, 'twou'd shun;

“Such was my Celia!—All the day
“She cheer'd me with her angel-voice;
“At night, when wrap'd in sleep I lay,
“She made in dreams my soul rejoice.

“'Till Derville, like a Dæmon fell,
“Conceal'd in Flattery's rain-bow guise,
“Came with alluring magic spell,
“And made her virgin soul his prize.

“My door still hail'd him as a friend,
“My table as a favor'd guest,
“While in return the smiling fiend
“A dagger plung'd within my breast.

“Poor Celia!—Guileless was her heart—
“Each specious gilded vow believ'd,
“A stranger she to hollow art,
“From her own feeling was deceiv'd.

“In Lust's fell policy compleat,
(“The hour unguarded when he came)
“He ruin'd—and as lightning fleet,
“Bore her to infamy and shame.

“Ah! where were then a mother's cries,
“To pierce the base insidious foe?
“But can a mother's tears and sighs,
“The Vulture make his prey forego!

“In vain I flew the country round,
“In vain did weep and wildly rave,
“Nor my poor hapless Lambkin found,
“Till I beheld her recent grave.

“Grief, like a canker-worm at heart,
“Had ravag'd from his inmost cell;
“Despair had pierc'd her with his dart,
“And Hope had sigh'd a last farewell.

“Weary'd with tears and ceaseless moan,
“Derville—may heav'n the fiend repay—
“Left her, all helpless and unknown,
“To black Remorse a dying prey.

“She, who from wond'ring gaze was wont,
“Within herself for safety hide,
“Modest and feeling as the plant
“The slightest touch which cannot bide,

“Ah, how cou'd she the distant sneer,
“The barbed sting that mocks all cure,

“From happier Pride the taunt severe,
“Ah, how the wanton's curse endure!

“For Me incessant was her cry,
“By Me she pray'd to be forgiven,
“Then laid her down—and with a sigh,
“Her contrite soul resign'd to heav'n.

“Heart-rending thought!—No mother near,
“In that dread hour to close her eyes,
“To breathe my soul upon her bier,
“And make for both one grave suffice!

“Has not, O Derville, to your care,
“A Sister gracious heav'n assign'd?
“Can you on this reflect—yet dare
“To hope your crimes will mercy find?

“Should you that Sister dear behold,
“The public infamy and scorn,
“To menial slaves a prey for gold,
“To Want abandon'd and forlorn?

“Wou'd not your instant rage pursue,
“Tho' guarded by a sov'reign Throne,
“The wretch—such Derville, such are you—
“By whom your darling was undone?

“Can Man—by heav'n all just and kind—
“Ordain'd our Guardian, Lover, Friend,
“With coward heart and wiles refin'd,
“Destroy what Nature bids Defend.

“The Vulture smiles not when he bears,
“To certain fate his destin'd food;
“The honest Wolf a foe appears,
“And boldly howls his thirst for blood.

“Oh, what a black-stain'd marble heart—
“If heart you have—your breast must chill!
“No print can Conscience there impart,
“Nor Pity's dew-drops thence distill.

“My days that erst so cheerful past,
“Like autumn sunshine, mildly bright,
“With wint'ry clouds are now o'ercast,
“Ah! when comes Death and friendly Night?”

More she had said, but choaking sighs
Her fault'ring accents quite supprest,
With broken heart she homeward hies,
Looks her last pray'r, and sinks to rest.

The Sensitive Plant.