One hand sustain'd a short, but naked sword,-
And one a golden bowl with poison stor❜d :
The jealous Queen the frowning form express'd,
It spoke, and aim'd the dagger at my breast.
"Arise! nor ask thy crime-but choose thy fate, Know prayers are vain-repentance is too late! Vengeance is mine-Here! drink this poison'd bowl, Or this keen dagger drinks thy guilty soul!" It ceas'd.: convulsions in my bosom strove, My curdling blood scarce in stiff tides could move. Thrice I cried, "Henry!" with a feeble sound, And thrice I started at the sad rebound! Even echo now grew frightful: with surprize Trembling I lay, nor dar'd unveil my eyes, "Till warbling birds proclaim'd the morning light, And told me, 'twas a vision of the night; Yet not the morn could chase my gloomy care, But winds and trees alarm'd my soul with fear; While waving boughs, that in the sun-beams play'd, 220 Seem'd to show daggers in each pointed shade.
Why was I form'd with such a coward mind ? The sport of shadows, or a rustling wind ! Nerves, better strung, did manly spirits warm, Glad would I part with every female charm, Then, cas'd in steel, the front of battle dare, And, with great Henry, rouze the soul of war! This arm should guard the Hero from the foe, Repel the storm, or intercept the blow;
And should my weakness in the warrior fail,
The soft-beseeching woman should prevail;
For thee I'd sooth each proud insulting foe,
And melt him with petitionary woe;
With thee in every hardy hazard join,
In danger save thy life to make it mine;
By night compose thy harrass'd head to rest,
And hush it on the pillow of my breast;
With patient eyes eternal vigils keep,
And court good Angels to protect thy sleep.
Alas! in vain I urge my frustrate will,
I find myself a feeble woman still;
The feeble woman to my breast returns,
For Henry's gone, and Rosamonda mourns!
O! see my eyes their streaming anguish pour,
O! hear my sighs increase the swelling shower;
What can I more than shed my tears and sighs
Poor woman's strength alone in weakness lies.
But whither is ungovern'd fancy flown?
Thoughts of impossibilities be gone!
Guilt claims no miracles, nor Heaven conspires 250
To aid my crimes, and fan my lawless fires.
Life irksome grows; detested is the light,
And my soul dreads the visions of the night.
Swift let me to some hallow'd convent go!-
Can I, for ever, Henry leave?-ah! no:-
But O lost Innocence !-I lost a name :-
O Honor!-broken is the bubble, fame.
Aramy sins monstrous? do invented crimes,
Alike unknown to past or present times,
Demand red vengeance? some peculiar curse ?—
Crowds stand recorded for the same,-or worse.
Have I, unpitying, heard the poor complain,
Or seen the wretched weep, and weep in vain ?
Have I my flame feign'd for a sordid end?
E'er wrong'd a foe, or e'er betray'd a friend?
Not to my charge such crimes has malice brought,
Love, only love, is my unbounded fault :
A fault, that sure may Heaven to pity move,
Since half of Heaven ('tis said) consists in love.
Ah! foolish Nymph!-Here, view the Queen! the
laws!-
But there view Henry as th' enchanting cause!
By such a cause the priestess would retire,
And quit the vestal for a nobler fire.
I will again th' immortal Powers implore;
Brave Henry for Britannia's sake restore!
In him she lives, to him her joys are due,
And only sends her earliest thanks to you.
But O! my Lord, my darling Lord, beware!
Tempt not too bold the dangers of the war!
Think, when thou seest the fate-impelling dart,
O! think it aim'd at Rosamonda's heart!
Were but each breast as soft as mine, no more
Should tumults rise, or martial thunders roar :
Heroes should scorn the glories of the field,
And the fam'd laurel to the myrtle yield :
For sweeter passions sweeter strifes inspire,
And love alone should set the soul on fire.
May then these eyes in tears no longer mourn, But cheerful hail their Henry's wish'd return ! O! swift, victorious, hush the war's alarms! Swift, if thy Rosamonda boasts some charms, Fly on the wings of Love and Conquest to her arms !
SHALL then his beauteous Rosamonda mourn,
Nor Henry's soul the soft complaint return?
O cease, my Fair! I deeply feel thy smart,
And all thy sorrows double in my heart:
Far from my breast, ye scenes of war! remove,
Far from my breast be every scene but love;
Soft rising thoughts as when, in Woodstock-bowers,
Joyful, we lov'd away the laughing hours.
Now midnight rest relieves the soldier's care,
Hush'd are the drums, and every voice of war;
Faint gleam the fires along the dewy field,
And faint the noise that sleeping coursers yield;
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