Classic Poem

A MONODRAMA .

A Sepulchre. Time — Night.

Yet once again — again at this dread hour,
When nature slumbers in serene repose,
And only murderers wake: — I come to pause
O'er thy cold grave, my child! Again I come,
Worn out with anguish, and the keenest pangs
That frenzying Memory knows. Ye dreadful shades,
Ye sullen monumental groves of Death!
To you I come; escap'd the wearying cares
Of empire, and its loathsome pageantry —
Sunk to the father, comes the wretched king.
O thou cold clay — once moulded by the hand
Of lavish Nature to perfection's form —
Once animate with life, and youth, and love;
Once my Earine! Again I come
To pour my sorrows forth and call to view
What this cursed hand destroyed; when, wild with rage,
With savage superstition, and the lust
Of empire, I destroy'd the fairest work
Of bounteous heaven — blasted the opening bud
Of beauty — cast away the ties of man —
And murdered my dear child!

Oh, she was dear!
I loved her — how I loved her witness heaven!
Witness the eternal grief that gnaws my heart;
Witness the days in fruitless efforts worn,
To check the bitter thoughts that still will rise;
Witness the nights, when Memory — sleepless fiend —
Fevers my throbbing brain. Oh, she was dear!
For she was all a father's heart could wish:
Health blossom'd in her cheek, and in her voice
The soul of music breath'd; her sparkling eye
Spoke each emotion of her gentle soul,
Most eloquent. Messema never saw
A maid more lovely than Earine —
A happier father, than her barbarous sire.

Now I can praise thy falshood, when too late,
Androcles! — I had sanction'd all his hopes.
He saw her eye beam love; he heard her voice
Breathe tenderness; and Nature bade him urge
The fond, false plea. Some fury, at that hour
Possess'd me — in her breast I plung'd the sword,
Gor'd her white bosom, though her fearful eyes

Look'd up to me for aid, though her clasped hands
Clung round my knees for safety. I beheld
Her livid cheek convulse — I felt her grasp
My knees, in life's last struggle — I beheld
Her starting eye-balls; — calm, when thousands round
Rais'd one instinctive cry; when even the priest
Started, and shriek'd with horror — I was calm —
I only — I — her father!

But the hand
Of Heaven lies heavy on the murderer now!
Earine! Androcles! look on me!
Behold me in the autumn of my days,
When, had I known to feel a father's love,
My daughter's care had smooth'd the path of age,
Behold me, withering like the blasted oak,
Struck by the wrath of Heaven. Nor ever night
Descends, but round my couch the furies throng,
Dreadful they smile, and in their red eyes glares
Horrible expectation!

Light'nings come —
Rush round my head — annihilate my woes!
Thou fearful spectre, wherefore dost thou come?
Where dost thou beckon? Spirit of my child,
Why bare that bleeding breast? Earine,
Spare me! Earine! my murder'd child,
Spare thy poor father — tho' he spar'd not thee!
Thou pointest to the sword — this impious sword —
There is no hope — no mercy: I obey
The dreadful call — accurst, abandon'd wretch,
Down to perdition! — — ( He stabs himself .)