But though the mem'ry of my murder'd husband
Has perish'd from all others' thought but mine,
And from the unrequited villain's fear,
Time still shall prove eternal Justice true,
And vindicate the vigilance of Heaven.›
Wait therefore patiently, my widow'd heart,
Wait and expect, nor mourn the outward change
Which leaves me as a solitary wretch
Left in some wilderness, whose drear horizon
Is bounded by the sky. Th' embracing Heavens,
That show a limit round the sandy wild
And ocean's waste where never coast was known,
Gives to the faithful and religious eye
Th' assuring sign of providential care.
And in my lone estate, my widow'd loneness;
I still have found its sacred aid attend.
Yes! as the ravens fed the prophet's need
With watchful constancy, still on this day
It ever sends the gen'rous Glanville here;--
And he will come, though his accustom'd hour,
(Alas, the hour on which my husband fell)
Be long gone by, and the sun near on noon.
[Enter REGINALD.]
Come, Reginald; where is thy father, youth?
He has not, as his wonted custom was,
Been here to-day. Surely he cannot fail
To think that always annual on this day,
He came as faithful as the sun himself,
To soothe my sorrow with his gifts and pity,
By this good constancy of kindness, he
Hath made a compact that he should fulfil.
Reg. Thou art offended, Isbel.
For never bond on legal vellum seal'd,
Gave stronger confidence to expectation,
Than his successive visits gave
That I had still a friend.-If he be honest,
He will fulfil the compact he has made,
Nor balk my rightful hopes. If he do not,
I will a grievous penalty exact.
Reg. Nay, be not thus so heady and so wild,
Thou shalt not lose thy stated gift to-day.
Isb. I know that this day cannot pass unnoted.
It is an anniversary that Heaven
Doth make the holy angels keep with awe,
-Now looking down from their celestial seats,
Upon this cloudy orb of blood-stain❜d men,
All wond'ring gaze to see what may befall.
But nineteen times they have the vigil kept,
And saving still some new distress to me,
Fate's dreadful purpose thickens unreveal'd.
Reg. But to our house it has been deem'd propitious,
And ever mark'd by prosperous events.
Isb. Yes, still on it, I know, some bounteous chance
Repaid thy father's charity to me.
But, gentle Reginald, should he not come :--
For, as the fortune of your father's house
Has been advanc'd as he prov'd kind to me,
Shall it not fall again at his remissness?—
There is som secret tie between our lots,
Which strangely seem in adverse scales oppos'd;
Methinks, the scales of providential justice!
And when the one ascends, the other sinks.
-From that unhallow'd and unguarded hour
In which my husband was so grimly slain,
I have beheld the tide of Fortune set
With a strong current that advanc'd your
Leaving me ebbed far upon a shoal,
Where nought presents itself to all my view,
But the white bones of a poor mariner,
Who in the dead defenceless hour of sleep,
Was by some dark and undiscover'd foe,
Cast from the shipboard down into the deep.
Blood will have blood, and Heaven heard Abel's cry.
Glan. Why looks my Ariette so sadly pale? Ariet. The solemn magic of this poet's verse Enchants my spirit into pleasing wonder, Tinctur'd with holiest awe. His every thought
Hath, like the halo round the sainted head,
A heavenly and religious intimation.
Glan. What is his theme?
How a poor damsel, hopeless died in sin.
Her mind was tender as the lacy film,
Woven at morning in the hawthorn blossoms,
And deck'd with gems of dew, which the soft gale
That breathes but fragrance, or the gentler stir
Of the fond linnet nestling with her young,
Shakes from the weeping boughs. Oft as the moon,
Round, full, and golden, fac'd the glowing west,
An evil spirit, faithful to the hour,
Came with persuasive dreams. Long she withstood
His soft seduction, and with flowing eyes,
That glimps'd like dew-drops in the moon's chaste light,
She pray'd her guardian angel to be watchful.
But there are times, as the sad poet sings,
When our celestial guards go up to Heaven,
With their account of that which we have done,
And in the interim, the unguarded hour,
Few can resist the instigating fiends.
Glan. Alas! 'tis even so!
Glan. There's an infection in such mystic tales
Which taints the heart with strange infirmity.
Read them no more; take books that treat of life,
The mind soon sickens that still feeds on verse,
The fruit of thriftless and distemper'd brains.
All the endowments of the Poet's mind,
That rich effulgence of bright-tinted thought,
Which wakes thy wonder, and inspires delight,
Are bred by ails in his corporeal frame,
As the gay glories of the tulip's flower,
Spring from disease engender'd in the root.
Ariet. You do amaze me, Sir. Never before
Did you forbid me, but was wont to praise
That subtile tact by which the Poets learn
Th' inscrutable affinities of thought;
And by some happy combination raise
Delicious pleasure from afflicting themes.
If this sweet Poet be not an inspir'd,
Surely fond nature, in some beauteous error,
Did reckless frame for such a world as this,
A mind so inexpediently fine.
Glan. Ha, Reginald, you look amaz’d.
You have neglected your accustom'd visit
To the poor maniac at the city gate.
Claiming the boon that you were wont to give
As due to her by some dread compact made,
And vowing vengeance if it be withheld.
Glan. She has, indeed, poor wretch, just cause to claim; And I did fail in an imperious duty,
When I forgot the hour, th' unguarded hour!
Ariet. Ah, you have caught the Bard's romantic thought,
Your guardian Angel has been then away,
Else had you not so err'd? Why do you sigh?
Glan. That I should suffer such a breach of mind
As to forget the desolated woman,
Whose only claim in life is strong on me.—
Methinks I have a desperate forfeit made.
What did she say? you say she threaten'd, what?
Reg. 'Twas aimless boding, like the foul black bird, That, perch'd upon the chain-hing murd'rers head, Croaks hideous and unutterable things.
What means that doleful sound?
Reg. It is the trumpet of the Magistrates,
As they proceed to greet the Judge's entrance
Sad signal to the guilty.
Reg. You will be late for the procession, Sir.
Glan. I do forget myself. I am too late.
|