The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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 | II. |
THE SUICIDE. |
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
THE SUICIDE.
------ Dreadful attempt!
Just reeking from self-slaughter in a rage
To rush into the presence of our Judge;
As if we challeng'd him to do His worst,
And matter'd not His wrath.
Blair.
Just reeking from self-slaughter in a rage
To rush into the presence of our Judge;
As if we challeng'd him to do His worst,
And matter'd not His wrath.
Blair.
I
Ye hapless sons of misr'y and of woe,Whose days are spent with heart-distressing care;
Who seem the sport of ruthless Fate below,
Still lab'ring hard, and still, as Winter bare;
Tho' rough the path, tho' weighty be the share
Of nameless ills, that press you ever down;
Oh! never, never yield to dire despair,
Or think your griefs intolerable grown;
Each has his secret load, and each must feel his own.
II
Is pale Disease, is Poverty your lot?Or, are you doom'd to some obscure employ?
Does mankind rate your merits by your coat?
Or burns your breast by Love's distracting boy?
Yet still reflect what blessings you enjoy;
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Glad Plenty smile, your toils forget to cloy,
And Celia blush amid your chaste embrace;
Then men shall see you deck'd with every worth and grace.
III
Be wisely calm, and brave the adverse stormLet Hope to happier times direct your sight;
Tho' mis'ries stare in many a threat'ning form,
Hope slacks their jaws and mitigates their bite;
And though the present scene be black as night,
Trust me, your hopes shall not be long in vain;
For oft, tho' Pain put Pleasure to the flight,
Yet Pleasure still dethrones the tyrant Pain,
And soothes the weary soul to peace and joy again.
IV
Unhappy they whose each returning mornIs fill'd with sad complaints and curses dire;
Fate ever frowns, and still they are forlorn,
If each thing move not with their wild desire.
'Gainst righteous Heav'n, with furious looks of fire,
They rave, blaspheme, and roll in blackest sin;
Till driv'n by mad Despair and hopeless ire,
To poison, dagger, or th'engulphing lin,
Unworthy heav'n or earth, hell yawns to take them in.
V
Lone Night had lull'd the drowsy world asleep,And cloudy darkness wrapt the midnight sky;
Scarce thro' the gloom the stars were seen to peep,
This moment bright, then muffled from the eye;
The distant bittern's solemn-sounding cry,
The breeze that sigh'd along the rustling grove,
The hasty brook that ceaseless murmur'd by;
Compos'd my thought as forth I went to rove,
To sing Matilda's charms and mourn my hopeless love.
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VI
As near a thicket's shade I pensive stood,The black trees waving solemnly around;
Sudden I heard a rushing thro' the wood,
And near me pass'd along the dew-wet ground,
A human form; its head with white was bound,
While loose its ruffled hair flew in the breeze;
A dagger fast it grasp'd; and, at each sound,
Would start, and stop, then glide among the trees,
While slow I trac'd its steps, tho' trembl'd both my knees.
VII
Deep thro' the turnings of a darksome vale,Where blasted trunks hung from th'impending steep;
Where oft was heard the owl's wild dreary wail,
Its course I follow'd, wrapt in silence deep.
At length it paus'd; fear thro' my frame did creep,
While still I look'd, and softly stealing near,
Heard mournful groans, as if it seem'd to weep;
And intervening sighs, and moaning drear,
Till thro' the night's sad gloom these words broke on my ear:
VIII
‘Curst be the hour that to existence broughtMe, wretched me! to war with endless woe!
Curst be the wretch, and curst the barb'rous thought
That bade me stretch the bleeding beauty low!
Still from her breast the purple torrents flow,
Still, still I hear her loud for mercy crave;
See! hark; she groans, alas, some pity shew!
For love, for Heav'n, for mercy's sake! oh save!
No; see her mangled corse floats o'er the midnight wave.’
IX
‘O earth! O darkness! hide her from my sight:Shall hell, shall furies rack me ere I die?
No, this shall sink me in eternal night,
To meet those torments that I ne'er can fly.
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Exult and triumph in th'accursed deed!
Soon in your flaming gulphs ye shall me spy:
Despair! attend, the gloomy way to lead,
For what I now endure no hell can e'er exceed.’
X
He said; and, gazing furiously around,Plung'd in his heart, the dagger's deadly blade;
Deep, deep he groan'd, and, reeling to the ground,
(I rush'd to rescue thro' the entangling shade;)
Flat on the mossy sod I found him laid,
And oft I call'd, and wept, and trembl'd sore;
But life was fled, too late all human aid:
And while his grasp the shining dagger bore,
His lifeless head lay sunk in blood and clotted gore.
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |