 | The poems of Dr. Yalden |  |
THE RAPE OF THEUTILLA:
IMITATED FROM THE LATIN OF FAMIANUS STRADA.
THE INTRODUCTORY ARGUMENT.
Theutilla, a fair young virgin, who, to avoid the addresses of those many admirers her beauty drew about her, assumed the habit of a religious order, and wholly withdrew herself from the eye and converse of the world: but the common report of her beauty had so inflamed Amalis (a young person of quality) with love, that one night, in a debauch of wine, he commands his servants to force her dormitory, and bear off, though by violence, the lovely votaress; which having successfully performed, they bring Theutilla to their expecting lord's apartment, the scene of the ensuing poem.
Soon as the tyrant her bright form survey'd,
He grew inflam'd with the fair captive maid:
A graceful sorrow in her looks she bears,
Lovely with grief, and beautiful in tears;
Her mein and air resistless charms impart,
Forcing an easy passage to his heart:
Long he devours her beauties with his eyes,
While through his glowing veins th' infection flies;
Swifter than lightning to his breast it came,
Like that, a fair, but a destructive flame.
Yet she, though in her young and blooming state,
Possest a soul, beyond a virgin's, great;
No charms of youth her colder bosom move,
Chaste were her thoughts, and most averse to love:
And as some timorous hind in toils betray'd,
Thus in his arms strove the resisting maid;
Thus did she combat with his strict embrace,
And spurn'd the guilty cause of her disgrace.
Revenge she courted, but despair'd to find
A strength and vigour equal to her mind;
While checks of shame her willing hands restrain,
Since all a virgin's force is her disdain:
Yet her resolves are nobly fix'd to die
Rather than violate her chastity,
Than break her vows to Heaven, than blot her fame,
Or soil her beauties with a lustful flame.
He grew inflam'd with the fair captive maid:
A graceful sorrow in her looks she bears,
Lovely with grief, and beautiful in tears;
Her mein and air resistless charms impart,
Forcing an easy passage to his heart:
Long he devours her beauties with his eyes,
While through his glowing veins th' infection flies;
Swifter than lightning to his breast it came,
Like that, a fair, but a destructive flame.
Yet she, though in her young and blooming state,
Possest a soul, beyond a virgin's, great;
No charms of youth her colder bosom move,
Chaste were her thoughts, and most averse to love:
And as some timorous hind in toils betray'd,
Thus in his arms strove the resisting maid;
Thus did she combat with his strict embrace,
And spurn'd the guilty cause of her disgrace.
Revenge she courted, but despair'd to find
A strength and vigour equal to her mind;
70
Since all a virgin's force is her disdain:
Yet her resolves are nobly fix'd to die
Rather than violate her chastity,
Than break her vows to Heaven, than blot her fame,
Or soil her beauties with a lustful flame.
The night from its meridian did decline,
An hour propitious to the black design:
When sleep and rest their peaceful laws maintain,
And o'er the globe b' infectious silence reign;
While death-like slumbers every bosom seize,
Unbend our minds, and weary'd bodies ease:
Now fond Amalis finds his drooping breast
Heavy with wine, with amorous cares opprest;
Not all the joys expecting lovers feel
Can from his breast the drowsy charm repel;
In vain from wine his passion seeks redress,
Whose treacherous force the flame it rais'd betrays:
Weak and unnerv'd his useless limbs became,
Bending beneath their ill-supported frame;
Vanquish'd by that repose from which he flies,
Now slumbers close his unconsenting eyes.
An hour propitious to the black design:
When sleep and rest their peaceful laws maintain,
And o'er the globe b' infectious silence reign;
While death-like slumbers every bosom seize,
Unbend our minds, and weary'd bodies ease:
Now fond Amalis finds his drooping breast
Heavy with wine, with amorous cares opprest;
Not all the joys expecting lovers feel
Can from his breast the drowsy charm repel;
In vain from wine his passion seeks redress,
Whose treacherous force the flame it rais'd betrays:
Weak and unnerv'd his useless limbs became,
Bending beneath their ill-supported frame;
Vanquish'd by that repose from which he flies,
Now slumbers close his unconsenting eyes.
But sad Theutilla's cares admit no rest,
Repose is banish'd from her mournful breast;
A faithful guard does injur'd virtue keep,
And from her weary limbs repulses sleep.
Oft she reflects with horrour on the rape,
Oft tries each avenue for her escape;
Though still repulse upon repulse she bears
And finds no passage but for sighs and tears:
Then, with the wildness of her soul let loose,
And all the fury that her wrongs infuse;
She weeps, she raves, she rends her flowing hair,
Wild in her grief, and raging with despair,
At length her restless thoughts an utterance find,
And vent the anguish of her labouring mind:
Whilst all dissolv'd in calmer tears she said,
“Shall I again be to his arms betray'd!
Again the toil of loath'd embraces bear,
And for some blacker scene of lust prepare?
First may his bed my guiltless grave become,
His marble roof my unpolluted tomb;
Then, just to honour, and unstain'd in fame,
The urn that hides my dust conceals my shame.
Heaven gave me virtue, woman's frail defence,
And beauty to molest that innocence:
In vain I call my virtue to my aid,
When thus by treacherous beauty I'm betray'd,
Yet to this hour my breast no crime has known,
But, coldly chaste, with virgin brightness shone,
As now usully'd by a winter's sun.
Not arts, nor ruder force of men prevail'd,
My tears found pity, when my language fail'd.
Oft have these violated locks been torn,
And injur'd face their savage fury borne;
Oft have my bloody robes their crimes confest,
And pointed daggers glitter'd at my breast;
Yet free from guilt, I found some happier charm
To vanquish lust, and wildest rage disarm.
But ah! the greatest labour's yet behind;
No tears can soften this obdurate mind;
No prayers inexorable pity move,
Or guard me from the worst of ruins, Love:
Though sleep and wine allow this kind reprieve,
Yet to the youth they'll strength and fury give;
Then wretched maid! then think what artifice,
What charm, shall rescue from his nerv'd embrace!
When with supplies of vigour next he storms,
And every dictate of his lust performs.
Repose is banish'd from her mournful breast;
A faithful guard does injur'd virtue keep,
And from her weary limbs repulses sleep.
Oft she reflects with horrour on the rape,
Oft tries each avenue for her escape;
Though still repulse upon repulse she bears
And finds no passage but for sighs and tears:
Then, with the wildness of her soul let loose,
And all the fury that her wrongs infuse;
She weeps, she raves, she rends her flowing hair,
Wild in her grief, and raging with despair,
At length her restless thoughts an utterance find,
And vent the anguish of her labouring mind:
Whilst all dissolv'd in calmer tears she said,
“Shall I again be to his arms betray'd!
Again the toil of loath'd embraces bear,
And for some blacker scene of lust prepare?
First may his bed my guiltless grave become,
His marble roof my unpolluted tomb;
Then, just to honour, and unstain'd in fame,
The urn that hides my dust conceals my shame.
Heaven gave me virtue, woman's frail defence,
And beauty to molest that innocence:
In vain I call my virtue to my aid,
When thus by treacherous beauty I'm betray'd,
Yet to this hour my breast no crime has known,
But, coldly chaste, with virgin brightness shone,
As now usully'd by a winter's sun.
Not arts, nor ruder force of men prevail'd,
My tears found pity, when my language fail'd.
Oft have these violated locks been torn,
And injur'd face their savage fury borne;
Oft have my bloody robes their crimes confest,
And pointed daggers glitter'd at my breast;
Yet free from guilt, I found some happier charm
To vanquish lust, and wildest rage disarm.
But ah! the greatest labour's yet behind;
No tears can soften this obdurate mind;
No prayers inexorable pity move,
Or guard me from the worst of ruins, Love:
Though sleep and wine allow this kind reprieve,
Yet to the youth they'll strength and fury give;
Then wretched maid! then think what artifice,
What charm, shall rescue from his nerv'd embrace!
When with supplies of vigour next he storms,
And every dictate of his lust performs.
“But you, blest Power, that own a virgin's name,
Protect my virtue, and defend my fame,
From powerful lust, and the reproach of shame;
If I a strict religious life have led,
Drunk the cold stream, and made the earth my bed,
If from the world a chaste recluse I live,
Redress my wrongs, and generous succour give;
Allay this raging tempest of my mind,
A virgin should be to a virgin kind:
Prostrate with tears from you I beg defence,
Or take my life, or guard my innocence.”
Protect my virtue, and defend my fame,
From powerful lust, and the reproach of shame;
If I a strict religious life have led,
Drunk the cold stream, and made the earth my bed,
If from the world a chaste recluse I live,
Redress my wrongs, and generous succour give;
Allay this raging tempest of my mind,
A virgin should be to a virgin kind:
Prostrate with tears from you I beg defence,
Or take my life, or guard my innocence.”
While thus the afflicted beauty pray'd, she spy'd
A fatal dagger by Amalis' side:
“This weapon's mine!” she cries, (then grasp'd it fast)
And now the lustful tyrant sleeps his last.”
With eager hand the pointed steel she draws,
Ev'n murder pleases in so just a cause;
Nor fears, nor dangers, now resistance make,
Since honour, life, and dearer fame, 's at stake.
A fatal dagger by Amalis' side:
“This weapon's mine!” she cries, (then grasp'd it fast)
And now the lustful tyrant sleeps his last.”
With eager hand the pointed steel she draws,
Ev'n murder pleases in so just a cause;
Nor fears, nor dangers, now resistance make,
Since honour, life, and dearer fame, 's at stake.
Yet in her breast does kind compassion plead,
And fills her soul with horrour of the deed;
Her sex's tenderness resumes its place,
And spreads in conscious blushes o'er her face.
Now stung with the remorse of guilt, she cries,
“Ah, frantic girl, what wild attempt is this!
Think, think, Theutilla, on the murderer's doom,
And tremble at a punishment to come:
Stain not thy virgin hands with guilty blood,
And dread to be so criminally good.
Lay both thy courage and thy weapon down,
Nor fly to aids a maid must blush to own;
Nor arms, nor valour, with thy sex agree,
They wound thy fame, and taint thy modesty,
Thus different passions combat in her mind,
Oft she's to pity, oft to rage inclin'd:
Now from her hand the hated weapon's cast,
Then seiz'd again with more impetuous haste:
Unfix'd her wishes, her resolves are vain,
What she attempts, she straight rejects again;
Her looks, the emblems of her thoughts, appear
Vary'd with rage, with pity, and despair:
Alone her fears incline to no extreme,
Equally poiz'd betwixt revenge and shame,
At length, with more prevailing rage possest,
Her jealous honour steels her daring breast:
The thoughts of injur'd fame new courage gave,
And nicer virtue now confirms her brave.
Then the fam'd Judith her whole mind employs,
Urges her hand, and sooths the fatal choice:
This great example pleas'd, inflam'd by this,
With wild disorder to the youth she flies;
One hand she wreaths within his flowing hair,
The other does the ready weapon bear:
“Now guide me (cries) fair Hebrew, now look down,
And pity labours thou hast undergone.
Direct the hand that takes thy path to fame,
And be propitious to a virgin's name,
Whose glory's but a refuge from her shame!”
Thus rais'd by hopes, and arm'd with courage now,
She with undaunted looks directs the blow:
Deep in his breast the spacious wound she made,
And to his heart dispatch'd th' unerring blade.
And fills her soul with horrour of the deed;
Her sex's tenderness resumes its place,
And spreads in conscious blushes o'er her face.
Now stung with the remorse of guilt, she cries,
“Ah, frantic girl, what wild attempt is this!
Think, think, Theutilla, on the murderer's doom,
And tremble at a punishment to come:
Stain not thy virgin hands with guilty blood,
And dread to be so criminally good.
Lay both thy courage and thy weapon down,
Nor fly to aids a maid must blush to own;
Nor arms, nor valour, with thy sex agree,
They wound thy fame, and taint thy modesty,
Thus different passions combat in her mind,
Oft she's to pity, oft to rage inclin'd:
Now from her hand the hated weapon's cast,
Then seiz'd again with more impetuous haste:
Unfix'd her wishes, her resolves are vain,
What she attempts, she straight rejects again;
Her looks, the emblems of her thoughts, appear
Vary'd with rage, with pity, and despair:
Alone her fears incline to no extreme,
Equally poiz'd betwixt revenge and shame,
At length, with more prevailing rage possest,
Her jealous honour steels her daring breast:
The thoughts of injur'd fame new courage gave,
And nicer virtue now confirms her brave.
Then the fam'd Judith her whole mind employs,
Urges her hand, and sooths the fatal choice:
This great example pleas'd, inflam'd by this,
With wild disorder to the youth she flies;
One hand she wreaths within his flowing hair,
The other does the ready weapon bear:
“Now guide me (cries) fair Hebrew, now look down,
And pity labours thou hast undergone.
Direct the hand that takes thy path to fame,
And be propitious to a virgin's name,
Whose glory's but a refuge from her shame!”
Thus rais'd by hopes, and arm'd with courage now,
She with undaunted looks directs the blow:
Deep in his breast the spacious wound she made,
And to his heart dispatch'd th' unerring blade.
When their expiring lord the servants heard,
Whose dying groans the fatal act declar'd,
Like a fierce torrent, with no bounds they're stay'd,
But vent their rage on the defenceless maid:
Not virtue, youth, nor beauty in distress,
Can move their savage breasts to tenderness:
But death with horrid torments they prepare,
And to her fate th' undaunted virgin bear.
Tortures and death seem lovely in her eyes,
Since she to honour falls a sacrifice:
Amidst her sufferings, still her mind is great,
And free from guilt, she triumphs o'er her fate.
Whose dying groans the fatal act declar'd,
Like a fierce torrent, with no bounds they're stay'd,
But vent their rage on the defenceless maid:
Not virtue, youth, nor beauty in distress,
Can move their savage breasts to tenderness:
71
And to her fate th' undaunted virgin bear.
Tortures and death seem lovely in her eyes,
Since she to honour falls a sacrifice:
Amidst her sufferings, still her mind is great,
And free from guilt, she triumphs o'er her fate.
But Heaven, that's suffering virtue's sure reward,
Exerts its power, and is itself her guard:
Amalis, conscious of his black offence,
Now feels remorse for her wrong'd innocence;
Though now he's struggling in the pangs of death,
And all life's purple stream is ebbing forth,
Yet, raising up his pale and drooping head,
He recollects his spirits as they fled,
And, with his last remains of voice, he said,
“Spare the chaste maid, your impious hands restrain,
Nor beauty with such insolence prophane:
Learn by my fate wrong'd innocence to spare,
Since injur'd virtue's Heaven's peculiar care.”
Exerts its power, and is itself her guard:
Amalis, conscious of his black offence,
Now feels remorse for her wrong'd innocence;
Though now he's struggling in the pangs of death,
And all life's purple stream is ebbing forth,
Yet, raising up his pale and drooping head,
He recollects his spirits as they fled,
And, with his last remains of voice, he said,
“Spare the chaste maid, your impious hands restrain,
Nor beauty with such insolence prophane:
Learn by my fate wrong'd innocence to spare,
Since injur'd virtue's Heaven's peculiar care.”
But you, brave virgin, now shall stand enroll'd
Amongst the noblest heroines of old:
Thy fam'd attempt, and celebrated hand,
Shall lasting trophies of thy glory stand:
And, if my verse the just reward can give,
Theutilla's name shall to new ages live.
For to thy sex thou hast new honours won,
And France now boasts a Judith of its own.
Amongst the noblest heroines of old:
Thy fam'd attempt, and celebrated hand,
Shall lasting trophies of thy glory stand:
And, if my verse the just reward can give,
Theutilla's name shall to new ages live.
For to thy sex thou hast new honours won,
And France now boasts a Judith of its own.
| The poems of Dr. Yalden | |