Poems and Plays :: :: University of Virginia Library

In pure affection who has soar'd above
The tender pious proof of faithful love,
Which thus awak'd our sympathetic care
For this unhappy, fond, barbarian Fair?
O that just Fame my humble voice would raise
To swell in loudest notes her lasting praise!
To spread her merits, in immortal rhyme,
Through every language, and through every clime!

With pitying females she the night remain'd,
Where no rude step their privacy profan'd;
Though wretched, thankful for their soothing aid,
With hopes her duty would at length be paid.

Soon as the welcome light of morning came,
Though soundest sleep had seiz'd my jaded frame,
Though my tir'd limbs were still to rest inclin'd,
Solicitude awak'd my anxious mind.
Quick to my Indian Mourner I repair,
And still in tears I find the restless Fair;
The varying hours afford her no relief,
No transient momentary pause of grief.

156

With truest pity I her pangs assuage;
To find her slaughter'd Lord my word engage,
Restore his corse, and, with a martial band,
Escort her safely to her native land.
With blended doubt and sorrow, weeping still,
My promis'd word she pray'd me to fulfil.

Assembling now a menial Indian train,
I led her to explore the bloody plain:
Where heaps of mingled dead deform'd the ground,
Near to the fort the breathless Chief we found;
Clay-cold and stiff, the gory earth he prest,
A fatal ball had pass'd his manly breast.

Wretched Tegualda, who before her view'd
The pale disfigur'd form, in blood imbru'd,
Sprung forward, and with instantaneous force
Frantic she darted on the precious corse,
And press'd his lips, where livid death appears,
And bath'd his wounded bosom in her tears,
And kiss'd the wound, and the wild hope pursues
That her fond breath may yet new life infuse.

Wretch that I am! at length she madly cried,
Why does my soul these agonies abide?
Why do I linger in this mortal strife,
Nor pay to Love his just demand, my life?
Why, poor of spirit! at a single blow
Do I not close this bitter scene of woe?

157

Whence this delay? will Heaven to me deny
The wretch's choice and privilege, to die?

While, bent on death, in this despair she gasp'd,
Her furious hands her snowy neck inclasp'd;
Failing her frantic wish, they do not spare
Her mournful visage nor her flowing hair.
Much as I strove to stop her mad intent,
Her fatal purpose I could scarce prevent:
So loath'd she life, and with such fierce controul
The raging thirst of death inflam'd her soul.

When by my prayers, and soft persuasion's balm,
Her pangs of sorrow grew a little calm,
And her mild speech confirm'd my hope, at last,
That her delirious agony was past,
My ready Indian train, with duteous haste,
On a firm bier the clay-cold body plac'd,
And bore the Warrior, in whose fate we griev'd,
To where her vassals the dear charge receiv'd.
But, lest from ruthless War's outrageous sway
The mourning Fair might suffer on her way,
O'er the near mountains, to a safer land,
I march'd to guard her with my warlike band;
And there secure, for the remaining road
Was clear and open to her own abode,
She gratefully declin'd my farther care,
And thank'd and bless'd me in a parting prayer.