University of Virginia Library

SCENE VII.

Edward.
She is no more! the Soul of every Grace,
Of every Virtue! Tenderness itself!
The matchless Eleonora is no more!—
Where am I?—Heavens!—Ah! what a hideous Desart
Is now this World, this blasted World, around me?
O Sun I hate thee, I abhor thy Light,
That shews not Eleonora! Earth, thy Joy,
Thy Sweetness all is fled, all all that made
Thy Ways to me delightful, Eleonora!
O Eleonora! perish'd Eleonora!
Pour not so fast thy Beauties on my Heart:
Ah! whither shall I fly from thy Perfections?—
Would I could think no more!—What shall I do?
Where go? what say?—That Tent! Ah me! that Tent!
I dare not enter there. There Death displays
His utmost Terrors—Pale and lifeless, there,
She lies, whose Looks were Love, whose Beauty smil'd
The sweet Effulgence of endearing Virtue—
And here I last beheld Her—Ay, and how,
And how beheld her!—The remorseless Image
Will hunt me to the Grave—I see Her Suffering,
With female Softness yet to Pain superior,
Fearful and bold at once, with the strong Hand
Of mighty Love constraining feeble Nature,
To steal me from Affliction—In the Camp,
Can I appear? A Chief among his Soldiers?
A Chief, who stoops to hold dishonour'd Life,
Life purchas'd by the Death of one for whom
The Brave in every Age have joy'd to die?—
And England—O I cannot bear the Thought
Of e'er returning to that Country more!
That Country, Witness of our happy Days,
Where at each Step remember'd Bliss will sting
My Soul to Anguish. I already hear
Malice exclaim, nay, blushing Valour sigh:
Where is thy Princess? where the Wish of Thousands?
The Charm, the Transport of the publick Eye?
Base Prince! And art thou not asham'd to bring
No Trophy home but Eleonora's Corse?—
The Grave too is shut up, that last Retreat
Of wretched Mortals—Yes, my Word is pass'd
To Eleonora pass'd. Our Orphan-Children
Bind me to Life—O dear, O dangerous Passions!
The Valiant, by himself, what can he suffer?
Or what does he regard his single Woes?
But when, alas, he multiplies himself
To dearer Selves, to the lov'd tender Fair,
To those whose Bliss whose Beings hang upon him,
To helpless Children! then, O then! he feels
The Point of Misery festring in his Heart,
And weakly weeps his Fortune like a Coward.
Such, such am I! undone!—