University of Virginia Library

“No! no!—It must not be—not yet! not yet!”
(The sad recluse replied, with fond regret:)
“I am not worthy, with paternal arms,
Yet to infold thy sweetly filial charms;
But hourly blessings, to a countless store,
Daily on thee I will not cease to pour,
Fervid, tho' absent! and my soul shall pray,
That lenient time may bring a blissful day,
When, my just vow accomplish'd, I may deem
My heart grown worthy of thy fond esteem;
When I my perfect peace with Heaven may see;
And forfeited delights restor'd in thee:
Thou lovely ward! whose welfare to secure
Ceaseless I supplicate the powers most pure.
Thou, whose defence my spirit, not remiss,
Embraces, as a pledge of future bliss.
O do not hate me! if I here disclose
Faults, that thy tender mind could ne'er suppose,
Faults of past time! for which new hopes I own,
A length of penance may at last atone!
Know then, that I a daughter once possest,
Whom had my heart, with nature's zeal, carest,
I might not now, in scenes of mental strife,
Feel the cold pangs of desolated life:
But let Venusia pity, if she can,
The pride, and the perversity of man!—
Madd'ning with loss of that heroic boy,
Whom Heaven, in anger, doom'd me to destroy,
His infant sister (O detested pride!
Offspring of folly! and to guilt allied!)
This little innocent (O base neglect!
Of one, who had no mother to protect!)
I in an hour, that I have cause to curse,
Sent to a distant mercenary nurse;
There, after lingering months of speechless breath,
With none to watch her life, or mourn her death,
My outcast daughter perish'd; while my mind,
Absorb'd in selfish sorrow, base, and blind!
Hardly lamented that young orphan's fate.
To just compunction I awak'd too late;
But O! if haply by contrition won,
A slighted daughter, and a slaughter'd son!
Heaven yet may pardon to my blinded soul;
If penance well-achiev'd, with soft controul,
May to domestic joys my heart restore;
If conscience tell me, expiation's o'er;
If I may foster, in this vale of tears,
Unseen, Venusia, two completed years;
If that blest period come, my rescued mind
In her, my sweet adopted child! may find
Its lost felicity.—To sorrow dear
This interim let sacred music cheer!
But O my tenderest of friends! beware!
The awful terrors of contrition spare!
Do not, by rash anticipation, seek
To conquer scruples, in a mind too weak!
Be thou in patience, as in charms, sublime!
And leave to Heaven its own appointed time!”