Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Child of my happier years, belov'd Sophia!
Thou darling comfort of my woeful age!
Why hang of late the humid gems of grief
So frequent trembling on thy pale-grown cheek;
Like morning dews wherewith Aurora bathes
The vestal bosom of the paler rose?
Why dost thou fly of late the social joys
My hearth paternal, and my smiling bow'r
Were wont to boast? That smiling bow'r, Sophia,
(The wild luxuriance of whose woodbine sprays

'Twas once thy pride to regulate and prune)
Now, long neglected, needs thy tender care,
To check the wand'ring tendrils, raise from earth
The infant shoots, and teach the jas'mine sprays
To mingle with the smiling eglantine.

But thou, of late, more lov'st the gloomy shade
Of woods impervious to the mid-day sun.
The solemn fall of waters down the steep,
The gurgling riv'let, murmuring as it flows,
The piteous wailings of the nightingale,
And the sad cooings of the widow'd dove,
Now seem alone possessed of charms for thee.

Oft, with a trembling and unequal pace,
Slowly thou wanderest to the limpid brook,
Whose winding course among the antic roots
Of yonder ivy'd oaks obstructed mourns.
There have I mark'd thee, (for I careful oft
Pursu'd, with anxious love, thy wand'ring feet)
With sigh-swoln bosom, and with moisten'd eye,
Couch'd on the verdant sod, the flow'rets pluck;
And with a look so grave, as tho' thy mind
Knew not the childish conduct of thy hand,
Scatter the vegetative beauties o'er
The gliding surface of the dimpled stream.

Anon thou'dst rise; then on the fallen oak,
Whose ivy'd trunk athwart the streamlet lays,
Thyself extend, and, dropping many a tear,
With widening circles print the troubled stream.

Sophia.
Let not this musing fancy, tho' at times
It may assume black Melancholy's garb,
Disturb the peace of my dear father's mind.

Albert.
This antic mood at first I heeded not:
For youth I know its musing moments hath.
Nay, some there are, and those of sprightly cast,
Who, in the sportive hey-day of their bloods,
Prefer, at times, by solitary brook,
Or shade umbrageous, prudently to woo
The mournful pow'r of contemplation sage,
To all the joys of pastime's jocund reign.

Sophia.
Oh my lov'd father, (whom not ties of blood
So much endear as rev'rence for thy virtues)
Think that whatsoe'er of grief's resemblance

Hath mark'd my actions, is from thence deriv'd.
The mind which virtue fills, and sense refines,
Feels more of pleasure and substantial joy
In cool Reflection's sober haunts recluse,
Than in the bow'r where revelry abounds,
And jest, and vacant laughter shake the roof.

Albert.
'Tis wisely spoken. Yet, my gentle girl!
Thou hast indulg'd this mournful mood too far,
And almost waken'd in the doating breast
Of a fond sire who only lives in thee,
A painful doubt, that in thy tender heart
Some grief was deeply rooted. Oh, Sophia!
Since my dear boy, my Edmund, from these arms
By cold Misfortune's hand was forc'd away,
To seek new stores upon that ruthless sea
Whose greedy jaws soon swallow'd up the bark
Where rested all the treasure of our hopes—
But cease the sad remembrance! cease the tale!
The tender subject has, I see, provok'd
The floods of grief adown thy cheek to flow—
And my own soul is rushing to my eyes.

Sophia.
Oh, Sir! that dear, lov'd name within my breast
Wakes the remembrance of the woeful day
When first the dismal story pierc'd our ears
Of the wreck'd vessel, and my drowned brother;
And pained Memory, with her magic key,
Unlocks the floods of grief, and drowns my soul.

Albert.
Peace to his much lov'd ashes! Rest his soul
In everlasting peace! while we below
Drain without murmuring life's remaining cup.

Sophia.
Heav'n to my father make its remnant sweet!

Albert.

'Tis thou must sweet'n it, my soul's only joy!
Look on these hoary locks, this wrinkled brow,
And this plain garb of homely russet hue.
Once in my form were strength and beauty seen,
And silken grandeur cloth'd my youthful limbs:
Like a young oak, the forest's rising pride,

I flourish'd fair, while strength and vigour reign'd;
But when decay approach'd, the fatal blast
Of swift misfortune, like the lightning's gleam,
Seer'd all my cheerful verdure. Now alas!
I, in myself nor life nor comfort have.
Thy charms, Sophia,—thy unsullied worth
(Like mantling ivy to the leafless trunk)
Give the sole comfort to my cheerless age:
In thee I smile, I flourish, and I live;
And should some envious chance thy verdure blight,
Alone I stand, deserted, and distressed,
To ev'ry joy, to ev'ry comfort lost.

Weep'st thou, my child? Restrain thy needless tears:
Let not the pictures of desponding age
(Too often prone to look for distant woes,
And dwell on fancied evils) chill thy breast.

Sophia.
I needs must weep, to think thy joys depend
On such a frail foundation. Oh my sire!
To such transcendent virtue, heav'n methinks
Should deal its bounties with a larger hand.

Albert.
Tax not, my child, the just decrees of God!
Know that whate'er his providence ordains
Is for our good; tho' oft our headstrong wills
Defeat his kind intentions, and pervert
His proferr'd boon to an unwilling curse.

Sophia.
Thy just rebuke, my father, speaks at once
The piety and wisdom of thy mind.
But heav'n's paternal goodness sure'll forgive
The rash arraignment of its high decrees
Which filial love extorted from my lips.

Albert.

But say, what shadow for complaint have we?
'Tis true, of all our rich possessions stripp'd,
Here in a humble solitude we live.
But what of that? Still thro' our azure veins
The ennobled blood of our high ancestry
Flows undefil'd by folly or by guilt.
And tho' perhaps to narrow-minded pride
We shine less awful, to enlighten'd souls
Our lowly station gives us double worth.

The diamond virtue needs no painted foil,
No tinsel ornament, to set it off;
But in its native lustre still the same,
Sparkles as brightly in the trampled dust
As on the golden circle of a crown.

Then think, Sophia, that the greatest wealth
Which our proud ancestry could ever boast,
Still, still remains, and in thy tender charge—
I need not tell thee 'tis a spotless name.

But child, farewel. I go t'invite those neighbours
Our friendly cares have tutor'd and refin'd:
These shall to day our humble banquet share.
In celebration of thy natal hour,
Our roof, Sophia, shall with joy resound:
With harmless joy that leaves no sting behind.

SCENE II.

Sophia,
solus. [After a pause.]

“In thee I smile, I flourish, and I live;
“And should some envious chance thy verdure blight,

“Alone I stand, deserted, and distress'd:
“To ev'ry joy to ev'ry comfort lost.”

Almighty Pow'r! in pity to my sire,
Launch thy destroying lightnings at this head.
Oh let me die, ere yet my shame be known!

“A spotless name!”—Distraction to reflect!
That name, he deems so spotless, and so pure,
Shall soon be branded with a harlot's shame.
Oh Roldan! Roldan! wherefore didst thou thus
My peace destroy, and then to branded Scorn,
To Grief, to Anguish yield me up a prey?

The shorten'd shades these spreading beeches yield
Declare the long-expected season past
When the dear traitor promis'd to be here.
Alas the while! how is he alter'd now!
The time has been when, with impatient step,
And mind distract with thousand hopes and fears,
He, full an hour before the appointed clock,
Would to the spot repair, and chide the sun,
Whose envious chariot, he would swear, stood still,
To intercept the season of delight.

But ah! among the brambles, flow'ret-clad,
Which skirt on either side yon narrow walk,
Methinks I hear—'Tis so. My Roldan comes.

—But oh! how slow!—Where are the eagle wings,
With which Impatience us'd to aid his feet?—
Alas! this coldness doubles ev'ry pang.
Oh anguish! cruel Roldan! Oh despair!

[Leans in a disconsolate attitude against the scene.]

SCENE III.

Sophia, Roldan.
Roldan.
In tears, Sophia, wilt thou still defile
The gentle lustre of thy matchless charms
With such unpleasant vices? Grief and Care
At once are odious, in their foolish selves,
And mar the lovely workmanship of heav'n.

Sophia.
Oh Roldan, if these tears, these silly crimes,
Offend thy sight, 'tis in thy pow'r alone
To dry my cheek, and terminate my guilt.

Roldan,
(aside.)

Lewson, I thank thee; thou hast warn'd me well.
But I have steel'd my soul by thy advice,

And now am proof 'gainst all her artifice.

I come, Sophia, as thy summons bade,
And should be happy thy commands to hear:
But brief, I pray, for I am hence engag'd.

Sophia.
There was a time, Oh Roldan! well thou know'st,
When no engagement could have drawn away
Or Roldan, or a thought of Roldan's mind,
While the now slighted, the forlorn Sophia
Would deign her converse. Yet my Roldan say,
How am I alter'd? Has this hapless face—
Where thou wert wont to swear the rival flow'rs
(The factious blooms of York and Lancaster)
Fought o'er again their long disputed right,
And strove for mastery with such lovely grace
As made Rebellion seem the child of heav'n—
Say, has it lost its wonted vermile blush?
Oh think, dear youth! the tears, which love of thee
Has caus'd so oft to lave this pale-grown cheek,
Have damp'd the fires of youth and cheerful health.
The tender languish thou wert wont to praise,
Now reigns perhaps no longer in these eyes.
Alas! if now dim sadness there pervades,

Think 'twas thy conduct cast the woful veil
Which dulls their once-lov'd azure.

Roldan.
You wrong yourself. I mean not to dispraise
The matchless beauty of the fair Sophia.
But, to the purpose of this invitation.

Sophia.

Oh Roldan! that cool air—that frigid tone
Freeze on my tongue the purpose of my mind.

Think, Roldan, think: ere this fond, foolish heart
(By love of thee, and thoughtless youth betray'd)
Drew me unheedful from strict Honour's shore,
How many joys encircled me around:
How many comforts in my bosom reign'd.
But now where are they?—

Think when time shall come,
When all the secret of our love's reveal'd—
What then must be the lost Sophia's lot?
O think thou see'st me, by my father curs'd,
Deserted by the venerable dame
Whose tender paps my infant food supply'd,
Driv'n to distraction, with a frantic hand

Cut the black thread of vital misery;
And—Oh! where roves my madd'ning fancy now?

Thou can'st not, Roldan, cast me off to Shame;
Justice will surely prompt thy tender heart
To a poor, hapless female to restore
The peace and honour you have robb'd her of.

Roldan.
I have no time, Sophia, now to talk
Upon so stale a subject. So farewel.

(Going.)
Sophia.
Yet stay, my Roldan—dear barbarian! stay.
Oh hear me yet. Thus prostrate at thy feet,
(A suppliant now to one whose docile form
Once thought no posture meek enough to shew
The humble ardour of his boasted love)
The poor distress'd Sophia lowly begs
Thou yet wilt pity an unhappy sire,
The social pleasures of whose cheerful board
Thou hast so oft with seeming friendship shar'd.

Roldan,
(aside.)

A curse upon my weakness! Still I find
The lovely syren clings around my heart;

And, but for friendly Lewson's warning lore,
I soon should melt to pity.

Fair-one, cease,
Nor waste such dulcet sounds in bootless pray'rs.

Sophia.
Not for myself I beg: my conscious soul
Rests in such firm security that thou
(If God's commands are to his creatures law)
Art in the eye of Reason, and of Heav'n,
In strictest truth my husband, that I'd scorn
To stoop so lowly for a worldly name
Which thy inhuman bosom had refus'd.
But oh my parents!—Think, Oh Roldan, think
Thou see'st my father, by Affliction stung,
Sink down dishonour'd to a timeless grave;
While a poor mother, feeble and forlorn,
Pursues, with broken heart, his hapless shade.

Roldan.
Fair damsel cease; nor waste thy words in vain.
Think'st thou that I, for all the humid pearls
Which thy fair eyes so copiously can show'r,

Will sell the sparkling gems of Titled Wealth
Which Fortune offers.

Sophia.
Oh you oft have sworn
That you preferr'd the poor Sophia's love
To all the affluent gewgaws of a court.

Roldan.
When thus I swore, I swore but what I thought:
'Twas then the dream of love. But, lady, thanks;
The vision's charm thy kind indulgence broke;
And now I plainly see, that love's a toy,
Too light to be preferr'd to honour, wealth,
And grandeur. So farewel.

Sophia.
Inhuman! stay.
Recal to mind, I had a brother once,
Tho' buried now beneath the whelming wave,
To whom thy youthful heart appear'd conjoin'd
By sacred Friendship's adamantine chains.
Wilt thou then stain thy Edmund's memory thus?

Roldan.
Pardon me, Madam; but I mean to act
As I suppose that haughty brother would,
Were he alive to hear Sophia's tale.
Farewel, for ever.

SCENE IV.

Sophia; Chorus.
Chorus.
Did you mark, my friends,
How the false wretch the weeping fair-one spurn'd?
Alas the while! to jest and sportive glee
Our neighbour bade us welcome; but I fear
To grief and anguish will his joys be turn'd.

Sophia,
(not seeing them.)

Inhuman monster! What withholds my tongue
From breathing curses on his perjur'd soul?
Why do I not upon the lightnings call
To blast his impious head? Oh me, my heart!
Spite of his cruelty, and perjur'd crimes,
Still, still I find the dear destroyer reigns
Sole lord and monarch of this foolish breast.

Oh grief of heart! where, whither shall I fly?
Say, black Despair, hast thou no pathless wild;
No forest to the cheerful eye of day
Impervious, where dark Horror reigns alone,
And where no single ray, no feeble beam
E'er interrupts the terrors of thy sway?
There would I fly, and from the world conceal
My shame and woes. Alas! my hapless sire!
My tender mother too! Ah, break my heart!

Chorus.
Say, neighbours, shall I soothe with comfort's voice
This child of Misery? Or shall we stand,
Yet unobserved, and let the hapless fair
Give, unrestrain'd, her bitter sorrows vent?
But see again she rears her woful head,
And to heav'n's high tribunal lifts her eyes,
With tears envelop'd. Pretty soul! alas!
Hard is his heart who could such tears resist.
Now see, with what a frantic attitude,
With what a glare of madness in her eye,
She to the thickest of the wood retires.
Let us not follow; for such heavy griefs
Need much of Solitude's composing calm,

Ere the sad soul is suited to receive
The healing balm of Comfort's soothing lore.

SCENE V.

Chorus.

STROPHE I.

Oh Solitude, ordain'd to be
The nurse of thought, and Reason's friend,
How many virtues join in thee!
How many rare endowments blend!
By thee the philosophic mind,
O Science! tow'ring on thy wing,
And leaving Error's train behind,
And Prejudice, and Custom blind,
Has dar'd of awful truths sublime to sing.

ANTISTROPHE I.

Oh Solitude! by heav'n design'd
Reflection's sober pow'r to wake;
To soften the obdurate mind,
And Vice's firm fix'd throne to shake!
How often has the ribald lewd,

Conducted thro' thy awful bow'r,
With trembling soul, Conviction view'd,
And loth'd the path so long pursu'd,
And weeping own'd Contrition's pious pow'r!

EPODE I.

Then comes Repentance, cloth'd in sable stole,
And with her leads fair Peace, and Virtue bright,
Who gently soothe the agonizing soul,
And chacing Guilt's tempestuous night,
The bosom cheer with heav'nly light;
And fair Religion fills the breast with pure, serene delight.

STROPHE II.

Oh Solitude! by heav'n endow'd
With pow'r to lull the stormy train
Of passions, furious, wild, or proud,
And bow them all to Reason's reign!
How oft Revenge his bloody spite
Has thrown away, and quench'd his brand,
When, riding on the wings of Night,
(All active bustle put to flight)
Thou hover'dst whispering o'er with influence bland!

ANTISTROPHE II.

Oh Solitude! by heav'n endu'd
With pow'r to soothe the stormy breast,
By Grief, Despair, or Anguish rude,
Or fickle Fortune's frown opprest!
Whose lenient pow'r can charm the heart,
Can stop Affliction's bitter tear;
And, by thy shame-concealing art,
Can lessen Disappointment's smart,
And blunt Ingratitude's fell dart severe.

EPODE II.

Oh! if beside some gurgling runnel laid,
Beneath the pendant willow's weeping sprays,
Or in some grotto's more sequester'd shade
The poor forlorn Sophia stays,
While on her cheek keen Anguish preys,
Each torturing fancy, nymph divine! from her sad breast erase.