Epistle, An
Thou that didst first my youthful heart betray,
And draw me from my innocence away,
Whose matchless beauty all my senses won,
And by whose cruelty I'm now undone!—
Think not I write t' insult thy keen distress,
A thought so mean, so undeserv'd suppress;
Oh! that I cou'd persuade thee to controul
The fierce and restless passions of thy soul,
Peach thee yet gentle to thyself to be,
And shew that pity, once denied to me!
'Tis ne'er too late, sincerely to repent—
God is not man, who never can relent.
Man rarely can forgive—his stubborn heart
From Vice and Prejudice disdains to part;
Man will revive those errors, and display,
Which pitying Heaven has deign'd to blot away!
Not so his Maker!—He our weakness knows.
Tho' mortal man allows us no repose—
Tho' Earth denies us here a resting place,
And Shame and Ruin follows all our race!
Tho' doom'd the worst of deaths to suffer too,
The scorn and mock af an unfeeling crew;
If true Repentance pierce the conscious breast,
Still may we hope the contrite tear is blest!
That mighty Love, which once a Saviour gave,
Shall bury all our sorrows in the grave!
Angels shall watch around the fatal tree,
And even support a wretch—like you or me.—
Oh Mercy, heav'nly fair—Transcendent Love!
Descend, bright Spirit, from the Realms Above!
Soft messenger of Peace, oh come at last,
Come, if thou canst, and cancel all the past!
The past—ah no!—can that forgiveness meet?—
A murder'd uncle groans beneath my feet!
The best of masters I deceiv'd—forsook—
Oh, M ILLWOOD ! there was poison in thy look!
I thought my heart its folly had subdued,
I felt secure, but when thy face I view'd,
Thy voice I heard—oh where was Reason's sway?
Heav'ns! how my senses were bewitch'd away!
My firm resolves were melted by a tear;
Why did I stay that syren voice to hear?
That artful tale of misery and distress;
Was Barnwell's ruin then thy last redress?—
Was it for Love, a gen'rous love to claim
The sacrifice of Honour, Peace, and Fame?
I shou'd have flown thy fascinating art—
For ever shou'd have torn thee from my heart!
How cou'd I listen to the dire request?
What! Murder—murder him who lov'd me best?
—Oh, Homicide! most dreadful to be thought!
How vainly by his life and maxims taught!
I hear his parting groan—I see him bleed!
I hear him bless the wretch who did the deed!—
“Protect my Nephew”—pardon too, he cried—
“Pardon my Murderer!”—And then he died.
—Oh, injur'd shade! the gen'rous pray'r retract,
It was thy Nephew did the barb'rous act!
It was the man you lov'd—you most caress'd—
Yes—'twas the hand you had so often press'd,
Inspir'd by all the savage host of hell,
'Twas MY accursed hand by which you fell!
Oh cou'dst thou doubt my love, inhuman fair,
A love which led to madness and despair?
Didst thou not see it in my struggling soul,
A love beyond description and controul?
A love that conquer'd ev'ry virtuous tie,
And thou! oh senseless creature! cou'dst deny.
But ah! those doubts thy treach'rous bosom feign'd,
There int'rest, pride, and falshood only reign'd!—
Ev'n in that moment, when my soul was rent,
And dreadful silence spoke the sad event;
Then cou'dst thou mock me, whilst I speechless stood,
And see these hands embrued in kindred blood:
Then cou'dst thou, M ILLWOOD , ev'n to death decree
The wretch, whose fatal crime was love of thee!
T HOU mightst have spar'd him, tho' a monster grown,
And black with crimes prodigious, like thy own.
In some deep shade, from ev'ry eye secure,
Deep as his anguish, as his guilt obscure,
To heartfelt woes and keen remorse a prey,
Unceasing tears might wash his guilt away.
—Ah! richer blood must wash that horrid stain,
The tears of penitence might flow in vain!—
Whene'er my fancy, with its magic pow'r,
Paints all the terrors of the midnight hour,
My soul congeals! my tears refuse their aid!
There, M ILLWOOD ! see that venerable shade!—
Thou knew'st him not—that excellence divine;
And what is all thy guilt, compar'd with mine?
Come, ling'ring Justice! here thy stroke shou'd fall!
And thou, false M ILLWOOD ! I forgive thee all!
Shall keen resentment share my tortur'd soul,
When shame and grief, and anguish claim the whole?
Oh, I forgive thee—perjur'd, false, and fair!
May deep contrition now be all thy care:
Still I implore thee, once sincere to be;
Kneel for thyself at least, if not for me!—
If Heaven can yet find mercy to allow,
Which saw my crimes, and views my anguish now,
Even in that awful hour, when Death appears,
And the soul trembles with tumultuous fears,
For thee a prayer my falt'ring lips shall form,
And who can say what Mercy may perform?
Oh, Pow'r Divine! resplendent as thou art!
Wilt thou not penetrate this bleeding heart?
Oh Thou! whom Heaven, in vain, to man wou'd teach—
Say, have I sinn'd INDEED beyond thy reach?
Oh thou, most Holy—most benignant Guest!
To doubt thee were a sin beyond the rest.—
Redeeming Love! there's music in that name,
Ev'n in the hour of death, of guilt, and shame!
Ev'n in that hour, which Justice shall decree,
That awful hour, my soul shall lean on THEE !
And draw me from my innocence away,
Whose matchless beauty all my senses won,
And by whose cruelty I'm now undone!—
Think not I write t' insult thy keen distress,
A thought so mean, so undeserv'd suppress;
Oh! that I cou'd persuade thee to controul
The fierce and restless passions of thy soul,
Peach thee yet gentle to thyself to be,
And shew that pity, once denied to me!
'Tis ne'er too late, sincerely to repent—
God is not man, who never can relent.
Man rarely can forgive—his stubborn heart
From Vice and Prejudice disdains to part;
Man will revive those errors, and display,
Which pitying Heaven has deign'd to blot away!
Not so his Maker!—He our weakness knows.
Tho' mortal man allows us no repose—
Tho' Earth denies us here a resting place,
And Shame and Ruin follows all our race!
Tho' doom'd the worst of deaths to suffer too,
The scorn and mock af an unfeeling crew;
If true Repentance pierce the conscious breast,
Still may we hope the contrite tear is blest!
That mighty Love, which once a Saviour gave,
Shall bury all our sorrows in the grave!
Angels shall watch around the fatal tree,
And even support a wretch—like you or me.—
Oh Mercy, heav'nly fair—Transcendent Love!
Descend, bright Spirit, from the Realms Above!
Soft messenger of Peace, oh come at last,
Come, if thou canst, and cancel all the past!
The past—ah no!—can that forgiveness meet?—
A murder'd uncle groans beneath my feet!
The best of masters I deceiv'd—forsook—
Oh, M ILLWOOD ! there was poison in thy look!
I thought my heart its folly had subdued,
I felt secure, but when thy face I view'd,
Thy voice I heard—oh where was Reason's sway?
Heav'ns! how my senses were bewitch'd away!
My firm resolves were melted by a tear;
Why did I stay that syren voice to hear?
That artful tale of misery and distress;
Was Barnwell's ruin then thy last redress?—
Was it for Love, a gen'rous love to claim
The sacrifice of Honour, Peace, and Fame?
I shou'd have flown thy fascinating art—
For ever shou'd have torn thee from my heart!
How cou'd I listen to the dire request?
What! Murder—murder him who lov'd me best?
—Oh, Homicide! most dreadful to be thought!
How vainly by his life and maxims taught!
I hear his parting groan—I see him bleed!
I hear him bless the wretch who did the deed!—
“Protect my Nephew”—pardon too, he cried—
“Pardon my Murderer!”—And then he died.
—Oh, injur'd shade! the gen'rous pray'r retract,
It was thy Nephew did the barb'rous act!
It was the man you lov'd—you most caress'd—
Yes—'twas the hand you had so often press'd,
Inspir'd by all the savage host of hell,
'Twas MY accursed hand by which you fell!
Oh cou'dst thou doubt my love, inhuman fair,
A love which led to madness and despair?
Didst thou not see it in my struggling soul,
A love beyond description and controul?
A love that conquer'd ev'ry virtuous tie,
And thou! oh senseless creature! cou'dst deny.
But ah! those doubts thy treach'rous bosom feign'd,
There int'rest, pride, and falshood only reign'd!—
Ev'n in that moment, when my soul was rent,
And dreadful silence spoke the sad event;
Then cou'dst thou mock me, whilst I speechless stood,
And see these hands embrued in kindred blood:
Then cou'dst thou, M ILLWOOD , ev'n to death decree
The wretch, whose fatal crime was love of thee!
T HOU mightst have spar'd him, tho' a monster grown,
And black with crimes prodigious, like thy own.
In some deep shade, from ev'ry eye secure,
Deep as his anguish, as his guilt obscure,
To heartfelt woes and keen remorse a prey,
Unceasing tears might wash his guilt away.
—Ah! richer blood must wash that horrid stain,
The tears of penitence might flow in vain!—
Whene'er my fancy, with its magic pow'r,
Paints all the terrors of the midnight hour,
My soul congeals! my tears refuse their aid!
There, M ILLWOOD ! see that venerable shade!—
Thou knew'st him not—that excellence divine;
And what is all thy guilt, compar'd with mine?
Come, ling'ring Justice! here thy stroke shou'd fall!
And thou, false M ILLWOOD ! I forgive thee all!
Shall keen resentment share my tortur'd soul,
When shame and grief, and anguish claim the whole?
Oh, I forgive thee—perjur'd, false, and fair!
May deep contrition now be all thy care:
Still I implore thee, once sincere to be;
Kneel for thyself at least, if not for me!—
If Heaven can yet find mercy to allow,
Which saw my crimes, and views my anguish now,
Even in that awful hour, when Death appears,
And the soul trembles with tumultuous fears,
For thee a prayer my falt'ring lips shall form,
And who can say what Mercy may perform?
Oh, Pow'r Divine! resplendent as thou art!
Wilt thou not penetrate this bleeding heart?
Oh Thou! whom Heaven, in vain, to man wou'd teach—
Say, have I sinn'd INDEED beyond thy reach?
Oh thou, most Holy—most benignant Guest!
To doubt thee were a sin beyond the rest.—
Redeeming Love! there's music in that name,
Ev'n in the hour of death, of guilt, and shame!
Ev'n in that hour, which Justice shall decree,
That awful hour, my soul shall lean on THEE !
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