Poems Chiefly Written in Retirement, By John Thelwall; With Memoirs of the Life of the Author. Second Edition |
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MARIA.
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142
MARIA.
A FRAGMENT.
[_]
The following thought originated in one of those infantile endearments, to which the parental heart cannot —perhaps, ought not to be insensible. It occurred, and was hastily committed to paper, during the bustle and preparation for the author's removal, with his family, from Derby to Llys-Wen. It is, perhaps, somewhat more tinctured with political sentiment, than is entirely consistent with the general tenour and object of this Publication: but an interest of another sort forbad its suppression. It forms a natural prologue to the Tragedy that follows; and, on that account, the sensibility of the reader, whatever his opinions may happen to be, will readily excuse the insertion.
Dear is the Babe—thrice dear, to my fond heart!
For she was my first born; and she has sooth'd,
With many an infant smile, the anxious hours
Of hard captivity; what time, impell'd
By tyrannous suspicion, and the thirst
Of uncontroul'd dominion, impious men
Immur'd thy patriot sons, Oh, hapless Isle!
Once deem'd the land of Freedom, now the den
Of infamous Corruption. Then how oft
Yearn'd my fond heart, and for the social bliss,
Permitted at short intervals, and rare—
Rare, and imperfect; by the watchful eyes,
And ears, and prying insolence of guards
Check'd and imbitter'd, have I heav'd the sigh,
And felt the anxious wish, that yet the tongue
Disdained to utter, or the throbbing breast
To own, uncheck'd:—alive to every pang
That Nature dictates; but, not less, alive
To the strong sense of duty; to the voice
Of patriots and of martyrs, oft array'd,
At dawn or even-tide, around my couch,
With presence all inspiring, and with tongues
Awfully eloquent, that bad me think
“'Twas for Mankind I suffer'd—for the cause
“For which a Hampden fought, a Sidney bled;
“For which the Gracchi perish'd, and for which
“Each high exploit that, with unweary'd breath,
“Fame, even from eldest time, still trumpets forth
“Was erst achiev'd.”—Ah! visions, that could rouse
Enthusiastic ardours! ye were oft
My props, my consolations: ye could turn
My bonds to trophies, my keen wrongs to boons,
My solitude to high communion;—
Could make me laugh to scorn the threats of Power—
His mock tribunals, solemn pageantries,
And axe, already whetted in the pause
Of bloody expectation. Ah! how oft,
Warm'd by such thoughts, has the gaunt scaffold seem'd
A car of glorious triumph, banner'd round
With wreaths and well-earn'd trophies. Death no more
Was hideous; and the Tyrant lost his power.
For she was my first born; and she has sooth'd,
With many an infant smile, the anxious hours
Of hard captivity; what time, impell'd
By tyrannous suspicion, and the thirst
Of uncontroul'd dominion, impious men
Immur'd thy patriot sons, Oh, hapless Isle!
Once deem'd the land of Freedom, now the den
143
Yearn'd my fond heart, and for the social bliss,
Permitted at short intervals, and rare—
Rare, and imperfect; by the watchful eyes,
And ears, and prying insolence of guards
Check'd and imbitter'd, have I heav'd the sigh,
And felt the anxious wish, that yet the tongue
Disdained to utter, or the throbbing breast
To own, uncheck'd:—alive to every pang
That Nature dictates; but, not less, alive
To the strong sense of duty; to the voice
Of patriots and of martyrs, oft array'd,
At dawn or even-tide, around my couch,
With presence all inspiring, and with tongues
Awfully eloquent, that bad me think
“'Twas for Mankind I suffer'd—for the cause
“For which a Hampden fought, a Sidney bled;
“For which the Gracchi perish'd, and for which
“Each high exploit that, with unweary'd breath,
“Fame, even from eldest time, still trumpets forth
“Was erst achiev'd.”—Ah! visions, that could rouse
Enthusiastic ardours! ye were oft
My props, my consolations: ye could turn
My bonds to trophies, my keen wrongs to boons,
My solitude to high communion;—
Could make me laugh to scorn the threats of Power—
His mock tribunals, solemn pageantries,
And axe, already whetted in the pause
Of bloody expectation. Ah! how oft,
Warm'd by such thoughts, has the gaunt scaffold seem'd
144
With wreaths and well-earn'd trophies. Death no more
Was hideous; and the Tyrant lost his power.
But there were times when fonder thoughts prevail'd,
Soft'ning, but not abasing, the stern brow
Of Patriot-Emulation:—chiefly then
When, with a tardy pace, the wish'd for hour
Approach'd, that to a husband's, father's sight
Promis'd the social banquet. Then—ah! then,
When thro' my grated dungeon I have gaz'd,
With straining eye unmov'd, upon the gate
Thro' which the partner of my soul should pass—
And this, my only babe:—my only, then,
And still my best beloved!—ah! how high
(With what a tide of fervour thro' my breast)
Swell'd the fond passion—for Thee, babe belov'd!—
(Even in the earliest dawn of infancy,
So sweet thy promise!) and, for Her, more dear
To my connubial heart, that she had giv'n
Birth to thy infant sweetness.—
Soft'ning, but not abasing, the stern brow
Of Patriot-Emulation:—chiefly then
When, with a tardy pace, the wish'd for hour
Approach'd, that to a husband's, father's sight
Promis'd the social banquet. Then—ah! then,
When thro' my grated dungeon I have gaz'd,
With straining eye unmov'd, upon the gate
Thro' which the partner of my soul should pass—
And this, my only babe:—my only, then,
And still my best beloved!—ah! how high
(With what a tide of fervour thro' my breast)
Swell'd the fond passion—for Thee, babe belov'd!—
(Even in the earliest dawn of infancy,
So sweet thy promise!) and, for Her, more dear
To my connubial heart, that she had giv'n
Birth to thy infant sweetness.—
Oct. 1797.
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