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

Chorus; Albert.
Chorus.
Behold, my friends, with pleasure in his looks,
Where our good, venerable host approaches;
Vigorous in age. Alas! how soon those locks,
Which deck with hoary dignity his brow,
Torn by his wretched hands, shall strew the earth!
Into whose bowels he, with broken heart,
Will soon I fear descend.

Albert.
How now, my friends!
What sunk in sullen and desponding thought!
Does this our once glad mansion yield no cheer
To rouse the sluggard sparks of sprightly glee
Within your drooping bosoms?

Chorus.
Wretched man!

Albert.
What can this mean?

Chorus.
Oh man, to misery born!

Albert.
Almighty Pow'r! confounded and amaz'd
I stand. Oh friends, relieve my tortur'd mind!
Has any sad calamity befall'n
My aged wife? or she, the tender maid,
Whose dawning virtues are the only joy,
The only comfort of my wintry years?

Chorus.
The daughter whom you mention, if aright
These aged eyes discern, now bends this way.

SCENE II.

Albert; Chorus; Sophia.
Albert.
What can this mean? Those loose, dishevell'd locks,
Those antic braided flow'rets, and those eyes

Rolling with restless glare, and gazing oft,
With varying passions, on the traceless void,
Are tokens strong of a disorder'd mind.
How now, Sophia!

Sophia.
Said'st thou not, my friend,
Roldan, my love, would instantly be here,
To end my woes, my honour to restore,
And snatch my soul from Shame? See, see, how gay,
And yet how simple is my bridal dress?
Do not these red and purple flow'rets smile,
Among their verdant foliage, doubly sweet
Upon this vestal robe?—But ah! I fear
Roldan, my love, is false, and will not come.
They say Possession damps the flames of Love.
And, now I think me, he's grown cool of late.—
Oh I'm undone for ever.

(Weeps.)
Albert.
Out, alas!
Where does Conjecture lead? Alas, Sophia!
Dost thou not know thy father?

Sophia.
Oh forgive!
My wilder'd fancy, by this briny show'r
Now almost back to Reason's rule reclaim'd,
Perceives its wild mistake.

Albert.
But speak, my child;
For on the rack of doubt thy rambling words
Have stretch'd my tortur'd soul—Of Roldan what?
Thou hast not, surely, dar'd to plunge thy sire,
Thy hoary mother, and thy spotless race,
Thyself, and all into the pit obscene
Of Guilt and Shame.

Sophia,
(aside.)
Now am I curs'd indeed.
Oh break my heart!

Albert.
Ha! dost thou tremble, wretch?
And does the harlot blood forsake thy lip?
Oh guilt! guilt! guilt!—Thou stigma to my blood!

Chorus.
Oh be more gentle! See, thy harsh rebuke
Has chac'd the fainting spirit from her lip;
And deadly Terror seals her hapless eyes.

Albert.
Oh that these pale-grown lids had long been seal'd
For ever!

Chorus.
Oh be calm! Thy child revives.

Sophia.
Oh me! my sire, disarm thy bending brow;
And pity thy poor, wretched, injur'd child,
Whom Love and Treachery at once have spoil'd
Of peace and honour.

Albert.
Torture! Say no more.
Let loose my hand, lest I should dash thee off,
And bruise thy wanton form to—

Sophia.
Oh have mercy!
Yet, yet oh hear!

Albert.
No, not a word, by heav'n!
Hence, from my sight, and never see me more.

Chorus.
Rash man, forbear! Cast not thy hapless child,
More by Misfortune than by Guilt betray'd,
To public Shame and Misery a prey.

Sophia.

Oh mercy! mercy! aid my pray'rs, oh Heav'n!
Let not a hapless wretch, whose feeling heart
(Too much to sensibility attun'd)
Owes all its woes to Tenderness and Love,
Now fail within a parent's breast to wake
The soft emotions of relenting grief;
By the excess of which alone she fell.

Oh my lov'd, cruel father! had my heart,
Like thine, been barr'd to Pity's tearful plaint,
Could I, like thee, have turn'd a careless ear

To all the pray'rs, the sighs, tear-broken moans,
And moving arts of prostrate Tenderness,
I had not fall'n—I had not now become
Thus, in sad turn, a supplicant myself.
Oh then, if Pity has not fled to heav'n,
And left this sublunary world for e'er,
Chace this obdurate vengeance from thy mind,
And let Compassion soothe the rankling wounds
Compassion caus'd.

Albert.
Vile strumpet! hence, be gone.

Sophia.
My father! Oh, in pity—

Albert.

Hence, I say!
If thou but let me hear one accent more,
Or tarry longer in my blasted sight,
I'll breathe such curses on thy hated head—

Oh heaven and earth! where is the haughty boast
I made so lately of a spotless name!

SCENE III.

Albert; Chorus.
Chorus.
See, with what feeble and distracted steps
The wretched offspring of thy tender loves
Slowly withdraws. Ah yet thy rage restrain;
And let me back recal the trembling wretch:
For sure enough of anguish must she feel
From the base treachery of a perjur'd lover,
Without the sad addition of thy hate.

Albert.
Oh cursed Fortune! Is it come to this?
Is this the fruit of all my tender hopes?
Is this the end of all my boasted joys?
Is this—Oh wanton! murderess of my fame!
Curs'd be my hoary locks, for they no more
Shall claim respect and reverence from the crowd.
Curs'd be the hour that gave the harlot birth!
And curs'd be Roldan!—damned, impious fiend!
Oh that I had the treacherous villain here!
Old as I am, and feeble with my woes,

These wither'd hands should strew his mangled limbs,
For crows to feed on, and for flies to taint.

Chorus.
Oh calm these boisterous passions! Ill befit
The frantic bellowings of ungovern'd Rage
With those white locks. List then to Reason's voice,
And calm the raging tempest of thy ire.

Albert.
He who has always sail'd on glassy seas
May mock the storm-toss'd sailor for his fears.

Chorus.
The prudent sailor, in the worst of storms,
Leaves not his bark to mercy of the waves,
Ply then the compass of unbiass'd Right;
And where that points thee steer by Reason's helm.
This would assur'dly teach thee to restore
Thy wretched daughter once more to thy love.

Albert.

Oh name it not; for never from this hour
Shall the ungrateful strumpet blast my sight.

Has she not plung'd me deep in endless shame?
Has she not turn'd the sole surviving hope,
The only comfort of my hapless age,
To grief and anguish? Oh ye cruel pow'rs!
Is this the meed of all my tender care?
Were all my sage instructions then too weak
To guard her honour? Was it, say, for this,
That from the earliest birth of infant thought
I careful strove her tender mind to form?

How have I hung delighted o'er her charms,
Pouring the prudent counsels of my soul,
With ev'ry soft, insinuating art,
Which youth is ever pleas'd with, in her ear!
How has she oft with seeming rapture stood,
And mark'd, attentive, each instructive tale.
Then with the sweetest blandishments of love
Which infant fondness to a parent e'er
Could offer, would she pay my tender care;
Hang on my arm, and fondly kiss those lips
Whose honied lore she said her heart refin'd,
Lifted her soul to Virtue, and her breast
From ev'ry narrow sentiment sublim'd.
And now, when flattering Fancy painted all
The wish'd for virtues budding in her mind,—

The deadly weeds of Shame and wanton Guilt
Deform the scene, blast all my tender hopes,
And mar the promis'd harvest. Base Sophia!
Bane of my soul! polluter of my blood!
Never, oh never will I view her more.—
Oh hapless wretch! where shall I comfort find?
Where, where are Hope and Consolation flown?

SCENE IV.

Chorus.

Oh cruel sire! who, in thy frantic rage,
Canst cast away thy lost, thy injur'd child,
A prey to Want, to Anguish, and Despair.
For, in my thought, more guilty is the sire
Who thus abandons his deluded child
Than is the youth whose passion was her bane.

You see, my friends, how haughty rage transports
To impious actions e'en the worthiest minds,
And makes us deaf to Reason and to Truth.

STROPHE I.

Oh Rage! of all the fiends of hell
Who rule the wretched mortal's mind,

And prompt to actions base and fell,
Most stubborn, inconsistent, blind!
How curs'd are they
Who own thy sway?
How doubly curs'd the wretched thralls
On whom thy prompted vengeance falls!

ANTISTROPHE I.

'Tis thou, who, doubly furious made
By lofty Pride's imperious flame,
Hast hoary Albert's soul betray'd
To barbarous Guilt and public Shame.
Oh wretched child!
By Passion wild
Excluded from the shores of Peace;
Where shall thy growing sorrows cease?

EPODE I.

Oh Pity, on whose cheek divine,
Like gems, the trembling dew-drops shine;
Whose humid lustre soothes the heart
Impierc'd by keen Misfortune's dart;

Descend, sweet maid! and with a sigh
Chace from the furious Albert's mind
Each passion, and each thought unkind,
And let his fierce resentment quickly die.

STROPHE II.

Yes, Pity, as the furious train,
Who prowling hunt their midnight prey,
Retreating shun the peopled plain,
When fair Aurora's humid ray
Benignly gilds
The cheerful fields;
So, where thy mournful beauty shines,
Resentment flies, and Rage resigns.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Oh! if at some fair virgin's ear,
Who, coyly cruel, slights the swain,
Nor answers to his love sincere,
Thou weeping pleadest, not in vain;
Forsake a while
The tender toil;
And oh! exert thy gentlest art
To soften Albert's cruel heart.

EPODE II.

Or if, some forfeit life to spare,
You now, with soft, persuasive pray'r,
With sigh-swoln breast and loosen'd zone,
And 'shevell'd locks approach the throne;
Oh hither haste! thy care forego—
Thy needless care, for Brunswick's breast,
Already with each virtue blest,
Spontaneous melts at real woe.
No need of Pity's melting pray'r,
For George and Mercy are the same:
And Envy must herself proclaim,
“Compassion's not more prone to plead than he is prone to spare!”