Valentine Verses or, Lines of Truth, Love, and Virtue. By the Reverend Richard Cobbold |
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THE NARROW ESCAPE. |
 | Valentine Verses |  |
201
THE NARROW ESCAPE.
Young B. sat musing by his College fire,
When Horace call'd to welcome him from Town;
The rap of visitor was made in vain,
For no one answered him, “come in! come in!”
Again the rap,—but silence left the mind
To doubt of welcome. Never yet denied,
Young Horace enter'd:—His surprise increas'd,
When lo! before the fiercely burning fire,
His friend in attitude of thought profound,
Sat deeply meditating. So intent,
His senses rivetted on inward care,
No outward object occupied the eye;
All was within like being when entranc'd;—
He saw not, heard not, yet his eyes and ears
Retain'd their faculties to see and hear;
He sat him down to contemplate his friend;
He looked for motion, but the fiercest flame
Glared on the eye-ball, and appear'd to play
With no more twinkle than reflection gave.
How long the reverie had lasted thus
Had no one interposed, 'twere hard to tell;
But Horace, thinking that his brain would crack
Or vision grow imperfect, spake aloud,
But spake in vain. The waggons in the street
Along Cheapside, or passing down Pall Mall,
Make just as much impression on the mind
Of those inhabitants who live thereby,
As Horace did when calling on his friend.
His voice was vain, then starting from his seat
With sudden blow of welcome on his back,
His hand fell smartly. But the instant start,
The horrid gaze of half-distracted face,
As full of dismal and terrific dread
As if a monster had with grasp of death
Cut ev'ry nerve of life, made Horace feel
The rashness of his step. Alas! his friend
Fell prostrate, groaning, on his college-floor.
The agony can better be received
By thought, than narrative. Suffice to say,
That slow returning life revived his form
And sense again, midst tears and signs of fear,
And yet midst thankfulness for dangers past;—
Those dangers shall be told, and he who fell
Shall be narrator:—
When Horace call'd to welcome him from Town;
The rap of visitor was made in vain,
For no one answered him, “come in! come in!”
Again the rap,—but silence left the mind
To doubt of welcome. Never yet denied,
Young Horace enter'd:—His surprise increas'd,
When lo! before the fiercely burning fire,
His friend in attitude of thought profound,
Sat deeply meditating. So intent,
His senses rivetted on inward care,
No outward object occupied the eye;
All was within like being when entranc'd;—
He saw not, heard not, yet his eyes and ears
Retain'd their faculties to see and hear;
He sat him down to contemplate his friend;
He looked for motion, but the fiercest flame
Glared on the eye-ball, and appear'd to play
With no more twinkle than reflection gave.
202
Had no one interposed, 'twere hard to tell;
But Horace, thinking that his brain would crack
Or vision grow imperfect, spake aloud,
But spake in vain. The waggons in the street
Along Cheapside, or passing down Pall Mall,
Make just as much impression on the mind
Of those inhabitants who live thereby,
As Horace did when calling on his friend.
His voice was vain, then starting from his seat
With sudden blow of welcome on his back,
His hand fell smartly. But the instant start,
The horrid gaze of half-distracted face,
As full of dismal and terrific dread
As if a monster had with grasp of death
Cut ev'ry nerve of life, made Horace feel
The rashness of his step. Alas! his friend
Fell prostrate, groaning, on his college-floor.
The agony can better be received
By thought, than narrative. Suffice to say,
That slow returning life revived his form
And sense again, midst tears and signs of fear,
And yet midst thankfulness for dangers past;—
Those dangers shall be told, and he who fell
Shall be narrator:—
“Horace thou art kind,
But hear my story:—'twas my lot thou know'st
To be in London on the evening past;
A single man of solitary turn,
Unused to bear the bustle of an inn,
For pastime's sake, I wandered to the play—
To Drury-Lane. There, ent'ring the saloon,
Midst fashions vot'ries, fickle, frail, and fair,
Midst sons and daughters of the thoughtless world,
I sat me down observant.—Some were gay,
Some giddy, proud, and flaunting; but alone,
Retir'd from flirting, sat a seeming mild,
Pensive, and thoughtful creature, with a face
As white as marble; and her dark black locks
In graceful curls of negligence disposed.
She saw my character, and glanced across
A look of interest. I know not how,
But o'er me, passion had maintained her sway,
And proved my blindness; thitherward inclin'd,
I talk'd and talk'd, till heedlessly o'erta'en,
In folly's hour, persuaded by the fair,
(Ah! fair in form, but sadly stain'd with guilt,
The most inhuman which could stamp disgrace
On sex of Eve) I wander'd with her home.
Onward advancing she pretended truth,
And told me, secresy must cause my step
To passby ladder into room above,
Whilst she circuitously tracing round
Would soon be with me. After weary walk,
Whither proceeding ignorant and blind,
We found the street. I found the ladder placed,
And unsuspiciously I sallied up,
And enter'd darkness. Groping now about,
Expecting light, I found at last a couch,
On which I sat; but feeling further on,
Most horrid fact, my fingers touch'd a face
As cold as death. The phrenzy of my mind,
It made me seize it; and from ear to ear
The throat was severed, and my madden'd shake
Of sudden fury, serv'd alone to tell
I could not be deceived. The ladder too
That instant from the window mov'd away,
I rushed, 'twas gone; and light and angry voice,
Approaching to the passage of the door,
Gave me one instant to expect my fate—
That instant seal'd it: with elastic spring,
At casement of the window I essayed,
And calling murder, tumbled to the ground.
I felt my feet; and running as for life
From street to street, I knew not where I went,
But onward kept, rejoiced to call a coach.
Such night of horror, shame, and dread, and prayer—
Such night of miscry, of thought of past,
Of future resolution—kept aloof
Refreshing sleep. One deep lethargic dream
Of drowsy darkness, wherein shapeless things
Of forms most frightful, yet with woman's face,
Kept flitting round me; and my hands with blood,
(As stain'd they were) seem'd lifted to my view.
But here I am, escaped! O Horace! say,
Have I not deep occasion for the mood
In which thou saw'st me.—'Tis enough, 'tis o'er,
My friend reveal it, when thy friend's no more.”
203
To be in London on the evening past;
A single man of solitary turn,
Unused to bear the bustle of an inn,
For pastime's sake, I wandered to the play—
To Drury-Lane. There, ent'ring the saloon,
Midst fashions vot'ries, fickle, frail, and fair,
Midst sons and daughters of the thoughtless world,
I sat me down observant.—Some were gay,
Some giddy, proud, and flaunting; but alone,
Retir'd from flirting, sat a seeming mild,
Pensive, and thoughtful creature, with a face
As white as marble; and her dark black locks
In graceful curls of negligence disposed.
She saw my character, and glanced across
A look of interest. I know not how,
But o'er me, passion had maintained her sway,
And proved my blindness; thitherward inclin'd,
I talk'd and talk'd, till heedlessly o'erta'en,
In folly's hour, persuaded by the fair,
(Ah! fair in form, but sadly stain'd with guilt,
The most inhuman which could stamp disgrace
On sex of Eve) I wander'd with her home.
Onward advancing she pretended truth,
And told me, secresy must cause my step
To passby ladder into room above,
204
Would soon be with me. After weary walk,
Whither proceeding ignorant and blind,
We found the street. I found the ladder placed,
And unsuspiciously I sallied up,
And enter'd darkness. Groping now about,
Expecting light, I found at last a couch,
On which I sat; but feeling further on,
Most horrid fact, my fingers touch'd a face
As cold as death. The phrenzy of my mind,
It made me seize it; and from ear to ear
The throat was severed, and my madden'd shake
Of sudden fury, serv'd alone to tell
I could not be deceived. The ladder too
That instant from the window mov'd away,
I rushed, 'twas gone; and light and angry voice,
Approaching to the passage of the door,
Gave me one instant to expect my fate—
That instant seal'd it: with elastic spring,
At casement of the window I essayed,
And calling murder, tumbled to the ground.
I felt my feet; and running as for life
From street to street, I knew not where I went,
But onward kept, rejoiced to call a coach.
Such night of horror, shame, and dread, and prayer—
Such night of miscry, of thought of past,
205
Refreshing sleep. One deep lethargic dream
Of drowsy darkness, wherein shapeless things
Of forms most frightful, yet with woman's face,
Kept flitting round me; and my hands with blood,
(As stain'd they were) seem'd lifted to my view.
But here I am, escaped! O Horace! say,
Have I not deep occasion for the mood
In which thou saw'st me.—'Tis enough, 'tis o'er,
My friend reveal it, when thy friend's no more.”
Accept the tale, thou hast it as 'twas told,
Recorded faithfully. Forgive my hand,
If now in love I offer to thy heart
The language of my soul. Beware, beware,
Of headstrong foolishness! Let virtuous life,
By thee esteemed, be recognized as such;
So call forth energy of mind and soul,
To keep thy senses in their just controul;
Ah! so shall Wisdom, sweetly freed from guile,
Protect the lovely, and on virtue smile.
Recorded faithfully. Forgive my hand,
If now in love I offer to thy heart
The language of my soul. Beware, beware,
Of headstrong foolishness! Let virtuous life,
By thee esteemed, be recognized as such;
So call forth energy of mind and soul,
To keep thy senses in their just controul;
Ah! so shall Wisdom, sweetly freed from guile,
Protect the lovely, and on virtue smile.
| Valentine Verses | |