Classic Poem

Demons of woe, ye spirits dark and fell,
Who haunt the lonely shade, and sombre dell;
Give me your gloomiest numbers, to rehearse
Brave Sacripante's death in mournful verse:
The truest lover whom the sun beheld
In his broad circuit thro' heav'n's azure field;
Let virtuous love and constancy attend,
To grace with tears the mem'ry of their friend.

Soon as the morn illum'd the glowing east,
In all her roses and her lilies drest;
Soon as the stars with fading splendour shone
Before the glorious presence of the sun;
Circassia's prince, impatient of repose,
(For love consum'd him with exhaustless woes)
Springs from his bed, demands his horse and arms,
To seek Cathaya's queen, that queen of charms.
He arms, then mounts his steed without delay,
And tow'rds the golden Orient shapes his way;
Tow'rds his own rich Circassia still he bends,
Where winding Volga in the Caspian ends;
Where giant Caucasus o'ershades the lands,
“And fam'd for beauty where Kabarda stands,”
The fates unkind no high emprize afford,
Worthy his valour, or his matchless sword;
Thro' savage wilds and glooms he wanders wide,
The regent of the day his only guide;
By night kind Luna lends her argent beam,
And milder glories o'er the forest stream:
One day (ah luckless day!) the warriour found
A pleasant wood with ev'ry beauty crown'd;
Here murm'ring streamlets glitter'd thro' the shade,
And am'rous Zephyrs love-lorn ditties made;
Here flow'rs appear'd of ev'ry various hue,
Which, ev'n at noon, were wet with morning dew;
Green willows shade the margin of the brook,
And speckled fishes tempt the angler's hook:
The prince beheld this cool sequester'd spot,
Where ev'ry care and trouble seem'd forgot.
Now from his stately courser he descends,
While love, dire vulture, still his vitals rends;
His steed enlarg'd, he hopes an hour's repose;
Ah wretched man, how near a world of woes!
Ah! fly this fatal spot, disastrous knight,
Tho' fragrant flow'rs and cooling shades invite,
Tho' Philomela sings her hapless lay,
And in sweet numbers seems to court thy stay;
Mistaken prince, the songstress bids thee fly,
The stream laments thee, as it murmurs by;
His thoughts Angelica alone employs,
The air-built castle, and ideal joys;
He blesses now the month, the day, the hour,
When first he saw fair beauty's fairest flow'r,
His cruel torments blessings to him seem,
And all his sorrows are a golden dream.

While thus entranc'd Circassia's monarch lies,
And fairy prospects swim before his eyes,
A wand'ring courier sought the self-fame glade,
To pass the sultry noon in green-wood shade;
Him Sacripante hails with courteous cheer,
Demands from whence he comes, his journey where.
The courier judges him some mighty lord,
So well his mien and splendid arms accord:
“The servant of Angelica's commands,
“That far-fam'd princess of the eastern lands,
“To whom the loves and graces homage pay,
“Smile on her cheek, and o'er her bosom play,
“(Said he) to kings and nations I declare,
“The heav'nly transports of the matchless fair:
“A second Cupid has her captive led,
“Medoro now enjoys her throne and bed;
“Behold his lovely portrait, and admire,
“Behold an angel of the heav'nly choir.”

The courier now the fatal portrait shew'd,
Where smiling youth with peerless beauty glow'd,
Where lilies, pinks, and Persia's roses bloom'd,
Delightful deaths, and graces which consum'd;
Where manly sense with female sweetness shone,
The eye was dazzled, and the heart undone.
When from the picture was withdrawn the veil,
The monarch trembled, and his cheeks grew pale;
From all his tott'ring limbs life seem'd to fly,
And death to quench the lustre of his eye:
He falls, the courier hastens now to bring
Reviving water from the living spring;
The liquid crystal on his face he throws,
And hated life, to him, once more bestows:
His grief now burst in torrents from his eyes,
And from his bosom heav'd incessant sighs;
In silence now, the portrait he review'd,
And now, the voice of sorrow was renew'd,
“Depart, my friend (said he), to all declare,
“The loves and pleasures of the royal fair;
“At thy return, I pray thee, to her tell,
“How Sacripant, her loyal lover, fell;
“How he has sought the realms of Stygian Jove,
“To mourn her falsehood, and his slighted love.”

Thus said, into the thickest gloom he slung,
And the deep forest with his sorrows rung;
Mov'd by his woes, the savage rocks were cleft,
And ev'ry bird was of his song bereft.
The wond'ring courier still his steps pursu'd,
And, unperceiv'd, new scenes of anguish view'd:
Beneath a mournful cypress was he laid,
But he more mournful than the dismal shade;
He seem'd a living monument of woe,
Tygers would weep, and tears from Pluto flow;
A thousand various passions on him prest,
And ev'ry passion tore his bleeding breast;
Love, hatred, envy, anger and despair
Join'd in dire conflict for dominion there;
The stately oak (when wintry tempests rave,
And burst impetuous from th' Æolian cave)
To Boreas here, to Eurus there it bends,
Whilst all the fury of the air descends.
Such was the hero's soul: At length he spoke,
From his pale lips these mournful accents broke:
“Ah me, what counsel shall my soul appease?
“What hush these storms, and calm these swelling seas?
“Say, shall I let the tide of battle rage,
“Make banner'd thousands in my cause engage;
“Bid Mars, in thunder, mount his iron car,
“And give Cathaya to the waste of war?
“Say, shall I act th' outrageous lover's part,
“And plunge my poignard in her minion's heart?
“Ah no! I combat not with her command,
“The sword falls harmless from my lifted hand;
“Still o'er my soul she holds unbounded sway,
“Circassia's monarch shall his queen obey:
“Ne'er shall he cause Angelica to fear,
“Or hate that prowess, which she once held dear;
“For me her sigh shall heave, her tear shall flow,
“Not she, but cruel fate, has caus'd my woe.
“On thee, my fair, may brightest fortune shine,
“May ev'ry joy, may ev'ry good be thine!
“Still may Medoro gaze upon your charms,
“Still may he fold you in his circling arms!
“Oh! may he love you more than wretched I,
“Who living lov'd you, and for love now die!”

Sol's coursers hasten'd to old ocean's bed,
The lover still the copious sorrow shed;
Swift as the day's descent his grief increas'd,
And with the parting light his period ceas'd.
Now tow'rds the heav'ns he cast his languid eyes,
And these last words were mix'd with tears and sighs;
“Ye birds, who wing this mournful desert round,
“Ye streams, ye oaks, ye poplars, which I found
“To sympathize with Sacripante's lot,
“Behold me die, then let me be forgot.
“Now, for a moment, O ye winds, be still,
“O cease, ye murmurs of the falling rill!
“And thou, resplendent source of light, attend,
“And with one ray of glory gild my end!
“O cruel fate, now glut thyself with gore,
“The blow is sped, and Sacripant's no more!”

A shining poignard from his girdle hung,
The warrior seiz'd it, with keen anguish stung;
The cruel iron pierc'd his tender side,
His life now issu'd in the crimson tide;
The courier ran to give his friendly aid,
The monarch rais'd his languid eyes, and said;
“Tell the sad tale:” while more he wish'd to say,
His soul had pass'd, like viewless air, away.