Nay hear me out!
And be thou wise in vengeance, so thy wife
Not vainly shall have suffered. I have wrought
My soul up to the business of this hour
That it may stir your noble spirits, prompt
Such glorious deeds that ages yet unborn
Shall bless my fate. At midnight I awoke—
For by my bed the villain Tarquin stood.
My chamber lamp gleam'd on his unsheath'd sword;
That was not half so fearful as his eye,
His hot, red, eye!-O Collatine-my husband!
Where wert thou then! gone was my rebel strength-
All power of utterance gone! astonish'd-stunn'd,
I saw the coward ruffian, heard him urge
His damned suit, and bid me tamely yield-
Yield to dishonour. When he proffer'd death—
Oh I had leapt to meet the merciful sword!
But that with most accursed vows he vow'd
That he would lay a dead slave by my side,
Murdering my spotless honour.-Collatine!
From what an anguish have I rescued thee!
And thou, my father-wretched as thou art-
Thou miserable, childless, poor old man-
Think, father, what that agony had been!
Now thou mayst sorrow for me, thou mayst bless
The memory of thy poor, polluted child.
Look if it have not kindled Brutus' eye!
Mysterious man! at last I know thee now,
I see thy dawning glories, to the grave
Not unrevenged Lucretia shall descend-
Not always shall her wretched country wear
The Tarquins' yoke,-ye will deliver Rome-
And I have comfort in this dreadful hour.
Thinkest thou, my husband, that I dreaded death?
O Collatine! the weapon that had gored
My bosom, had been ease, been happiness-
Elysium to the hell of his hot grasp.
Judge if Lucretia could have fear'd to die!
TO RECOVERY.
RECOVERY, where art thou?
Daughter of Heaven, where shall we seek thy help?
Upon what hallowed fountain hast thou laid
O nymph adored, thy spell?
By the grey ocean's verge,
Daughter of Heaven, we seek thee, but in vain;
We find no healing in the breeze that sweeps
Thy thymy mountain's brow.
Where are the happy hours,
The sunshine that so cheer'd the morn of life!
For health is fled, and with her fled the joys
That made existence dear.
I saw the distant hills
Smile in the radiance of the orient beam,
And gazed delighted that anon our feet
Should visit scenes so fair.
I look'd abroad at noon,
The shadow and the storm were on the hills.
The crags that like a faery fabric shone
Darkness had overwhelm'd.
On you, ye coming years,
So fairly shone the April gleam of hope,
So darkly o'er the distance late so bright,
Now settle the black clouds.
Come thou and chase away
Sorrow and pain, the persecuting powers
That make the melancholy day so long,
So long the restless night.
Shall we not find thee here,
Recovery, on the ocean's breezy strand?
Is there no healing in the gales that sweep
The thymy mountain's brow?
I look for thy approach,
O life-preserving Power! as he who strays
Alone in darkness o'er the pathless marsh
Watches the dawn of day.
NAY gather not that filbert, Nicholas,
There is a maggot there,—it is his house—
His castle-Oh commit not burglary!
Strip him not naked, 'tis his clothes, his shell,
His bones, the very armour of his life,
And thou shalt do no murder, Nicholas !
It were an easy thing to crack that nut,
Or with thy crackers or thy double teeth,
So easily may all things be destroyed!
But 'tis not in the power of mortal man
To mend the fracture of a filbert shell.
There were two great men once amused themselves
With watching maggots run their wriggling race
And wagering on their speed; but Nick, to us
It were no sport to see the pampered worm
Roll out and then draw in his folds of fat,
Like to some barber's leathern powder bag
Wherewith he feathers, frosts, or cauliflowers
Spruce beau, or lady fair, or doctor grave.
Enough of dangers and of enemies
Hath Nature's wisdom for the worm ordained,
Increase not thou the number! him the mouse
Gnawing with nibbling tooth the shell's defence
May from his native tenement eject;
Him may the nut-hatch piercing with strong bill
Unwittingly destroy, or to his hoard
The squirrel bear, at leisure to be crack'd.
Man also hath his dangers and his foes,
As this poor maggot hath, and when I muse
Upon the aches, anxieties, and fears,
The maggot knows not, Nicholas, methinks
It were a happy metamorphosis
To be enkernelled thus: never to hear
Of wars, and of invasions, and of plots,
Kings, Jacobines, and tax-commissioners,
To feel no motion but the wind that shook
The filbert tree, and rocked me to my rest;
And in the middle of such exquisite food
To live luxurious! the perfection this
Of snugness! it were to unite at once
Hermit retirement, aldermanic bliss,
And stoic independence of mankind.
ON Vorska's glittering waves
The morning sun-beams play ;
Pultowa's walls are throng'd
With eager multitudes:
Athwart the dusty vale
They strain their aching eyes,
Where to the fight he moves
The conqueror Charles, the iron-hearted Swede.]
Him famine hath not tamed
The tamer of the brave;
Him winter hath not quell'd,
When man by man his veteran troops sunk down,
Frozen to their endless sleep,
He held undaunted on ;
Him pain hath not subdued,
What though he mounts not now
The fiery steed of war,
Borne on a litter to the fight he goes.
Go, iron-hearted king!
Full of thy former fame.
Think how the humbled Dane
Crouch'd to thy victor sword;
Think how the wretched Pole
Resign'd his conquer'd crown;
Go iron-hearted king!
Let Narva's glory swell thy haughty breast-
The death-day of thy glory, Charles, hath dawn'd;
Proud Swede, the sun hath risen
That on thy shame shall set!
Now bend thine head from heaven,
Now Patkul be revenged!
For o'er that bloody Swede
Ruin hath rais'd his arm-
For ere the night descends
His veteran host subdued,
His laurels blasted to revive no mor
He flies before the foe!
Long years of hope deceived
That conquered Swede must prove,
Patkul thou art avenged!
Long years of idleness
That restless soul must bear,
Patkul thou art avenged!
The despot's savage anger took thy life,
Thy death has stabb'd his fame.
THE night is come, no fears disturb
The dreams of innocence;
They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths,
They sleep-alas! they sleep!
Go to the palace wouldst thou know
How hideous night can be ;
Eye is not closed in those accursed walls,
Nor heart at quiet there.
The monarch from the window leans,
He listens to the night,
And with a horrible and eager hope
Awaits the midnight bell.
Oh, he has hell within him now!
God, always art thou just!
For innocence can never know such pangs
As pierce successful guilt.
He looks abroad and all is still.
Hark! now the midnight bell
Sounds through the silence of the night alone;
And now the signal gun!
Thy hand is on him, righteous God!
He hears the frantic shriek,.
He hears the glorying yells of massacre,
And he repents too late.
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