Queen of the human heart! at whose command
The swelling tides of mighty passion rise;
Melpomene, support my vent'rous hand,
And aid thy suppliant in his bold emprise;
From the gay scenes of pride
Do thou his footsteps guide
To nature's awful courts, where nurst of yore,
Young Shakspeare, Fancy's child, was taught his warious lore.
So may his favour'd eye explore the source,
To few reveal'd, whence human sorrows charm:
So may his numbers, with pathetic force,
Bid terror shake us or compassion warm,
As different strains control
The movements of the soul;
Adjust its passions, harmonize its tone;
To feel for other's woe, or nobly bear its own.
Deep in the covert of a shadowy grove,
'Mid broken rocks, where dashing currents play;
Dear to the pensive pleasures, dear to love,
And Damon's muse, that breathes her melting lay,
This ardent prayer was made:
When, lo! the secret shade,
As conscious of some heavenly presence, shook,
Strength, firmness, reason, all—my astonish'd soul forsook.
Ah! whither goddess! whither am I borne?
To what wild region's necromantic shore,
These panics whence? and why my bosom torn
With sudden terrors never felt before?
Darkness enwraps me round,
While from the vast profound
Emerging spectres dreadful shapes assume,
And gleaming on my sight, add horror to the gloom.
Ha! what is he whose fierce indignant eye,
Denouncing vengeance, kindles into flame?
Whose boisterous fury blows a storm so high
As with its thunder shakes his labouring frame.
What can such rage provoke?
His words their passage choke:
His eager steps nor time nor truce allow,
And dreadful dangers wait the menace of his brow.
Protect me, goddess! whence that fearful shriek
Of consternation? as grim death had laid
His icy fingers on some guilty cheek,
And all the powers of manhood shrunk dismay'd:
Ah, see! besmeared with gore,
Revenge stands threatening o'er
A pale delinquent, whose retorted eyes
In vain for pity call—the wretched victim dies.
Not long the space—abandon'd to despair,
With eyes aghast, or hopeless fix'd on earth,
This slave of passion rends his scatter'd hair,
Beats his sad breast, and execrates his birth:
While torn within, he feels
The pangs of whips and wheels;
And sees, or fancies, all the fiends below
Beckoning his frighted soul to realms of endless woe.
Before my wondering sense new phantoms dance,
And stamp their horrid shapes upon my brain—
A wretch with jealous brow, and eyes askance,
Feeds all in secret on his bosom pain.
Fond love, fierce hate affail;
Alternate they prevail:
While conscious pride and shame with rage conspire,
And urge the latent spark to flames of torturing fire.
The storm proceeds—his changeful visage trace:
From rage to madness every feature breaks.
A growing frenzy grins upon his face,
And in his frightful stare distraction speaks.
His straw-invested head
Proclaims all reason fled;
And not a tear bedews those vacant eyes—
But songs and shouts succeed, and laughter-mingled sighs.
Yet, yet again!—a murderer's hand appears
Grasping a pointed dagger stain'd with blood!
His look malignant chills with boding fears,
That check the current of life's ebbing flood.
In midnight's darkelt clouds
The dreary miscreant shrouds
His felon step—as 'twere to darkness given
To dim the watchful eye of all-pervading heaven.
And hark! ah mercy! whence that hollow sound?
Why with strange horror starts my bristling hair?
Earth opens wide, and from unhallow'd ground
A pallid ghost slow-rising steals on air.
To where a mangled corse
Expos'd without remorse
Lies shroudless, unentomb'd, he points the way—
Points to the prowling wolf exultant o'er his prey.
“Was it for this,” he cries, “with kindly shower
“Of daily gifts the traitor I caress'd?
“For this, array'd him in the robe of power,
“And lodg'd my royal secrets in his breast?
“O kindness ill-repay'd!
“To bare the murdering blade
“Against my life!—may heaven his guilt explore,
“And to my suffering race their splendid rights restore.”
He said, and stalk'd away—Ah goddess! cease
Thus with terrific forms to rack my brain;
These horrid phantoms shake the throne of peace,
The swelling tides of mighty passion rise;
Melpomene, support my vent'rous hand,
And aid thy suppliant in his bold emprise;
From the gay scenes of pride
Do thou his footsteps guide
To nature's awful courts, where nurst of yore,
Young Shakspeare, Fancy's child, was taught his warious lore.
So may his favour'd eye explore the source,
To few reveal'd, whence human sorrows charm:
So may his numbers, with pathetic force,
Bid terror shake us or compassion warm,
As different strains control
The movements of the soul;
Adjust its passions, harmonize its tone;
To feel for other's woe, or nobly bear its own.
Deep in the covert of a shadowy grove,
'Mid broken rocks, where dashing currents play;
Dear to the pensive pleasures, dear to love,
And Damon's muse, that breathes her melting lay,
This ardent prayer was made:
When, lo! the secret shade,
As conscious of some heavenly presence, shook,
Strength, firmness, reason, all—my astonish'd soul forsook.
Ah! whither goddess! whither am I borne?
To what wild region's necromantic shore,
These panics whence? and why my bosom torn
With sudden terrors never felt before?
Darkness enwraps me round,
While from the vast profound
Emerging spectres dreadful shapes assume,
And gleaming on my sight, add horror to the gloom.
Ha! what is he whose fierce indignant eye,
Denouncing vengeance, kindles into flame?
Whose boisterous fury blows a storm so high
As with its thunder shakes his labouring frame.
What can such rage provoke?
His words their passage choke:
His eager steps nor time nor truce allow,
And dreadful dangers wait the menace of his brow.
Protect me, goddess! whence that fearful shriek
Of consternation? as grim death had laid
His icy fingers on some guilty cheek,
And all the powers of manhood shrunk dismay'd:
Ah, see! besmeared with gore,
Revenge stands threatening o'er
A pale delinquent, whose retorted eyes
In vain for pity call—the wretched victim dies.
Not long the space—abandon'd to despair,
With eyes aghast, or hopeless fix'd on earth,
This slave of passion rends his scatter'd hair,
Beats his sad breast, and execrates his birth:
While torn within, he feels
The pangs of whips and wheels;
And sees, or fancies, all the fiends below
Beckoning his frighted soul to realms of endless woe.
Before my wondering sense new phantoms dance,
And stamp their horrid shapes upon my brain—
A wretch with jealous brow, and eyes askance,
Feeds all in secret on his bosom pain.
Fond love, fierce hate affail;
Alternate they prevail:
While conscious pride and shame with rage conspire,
And urge the latent spark to flames of torturing fire.
The storm proceeds—his changeful visage trace:
From rage to madness every feature breaks.
A growing frenzy grins upon his face,
And in his frightful stare distraction speaks.
His straw-invested head
Proclaims all reason fled;
And not a tear bedews those vacant eyes—
But songs and shouts succeed, and laughter-mingled sighs.
Yet, yet again!—a murderer's hand appears
Grasping a pointed dagger stain'd with blood!
His look malignant chills with boding fears,
That check the current of life's ebbing flood.
In midnight's darkelt clouds
The dreary miscreant shrouds
His felon step—as 'twere to darkness given
To dim the watchful eye of all-pervading heaven.
And hark! ah mercy! whence that hollow sound?
Why with strange horror starts my bristling hair?
Earth opens wide, and from unhallow'd ground
A pallid ghost slow-rising steals on air.
To where a mangled corse
Expos'd without remorse
Lies shroudless, unentomb'd, he points the way—
Points to the prowling wolf exultant o'er his prey.
“Was it for this,” he cries, “with kindly shower
“Of daily gifts the traitor I caress'd?
“For this, array'd him in the robe of power,
“And lodg'd my royal secrets in his breast?
“O kindness ill-repay'd!
“To bare the murdering blade
“Against my life!—may heaven his guilt explore,
“And to my suffering race their splendid rights restore.”
He said, and stalk'd away—Ah goddess! cease
Thus with terrific forms to rack my brain;
These horrid phantoms shake the throne of peace,