Classic Poem

Their's is a bower, but not of bliss —
Joy cannot spring from love like this:
Unholy love is bought too dear —
Remorse, anxiety, and fear
Must still attend it; and each thought
Be with a burning penance fraught.
They part; he leaves her pale and trembling,
His own deep misery dissembling;
Hiding his fear, lest some keen eye
Their love unlawful should espy.
Like a troubled spirit gliding
Along, while love's wild dream subsiding,
He awakes from fancied bliss
To know himself the wretch he is!
Whilst she, with palpitating heart
That throbs with shame and fear,
Returns whence she shall ne'er depart,
Except upon her bier!
Marked by an eye which should have been
Blind ere it looked on such a scene;
Tracked by a step which faltered still
As it approached that scene of ill,
They go not back such as they came,
None, save themselves, to know their shame,
For the brand is fixed upon their name;
And he the wronged and injured one,
Appealing to her sire,
Hath told the deed of evil done,
And wakened all his ire!
Hate must end what love begun,
The avenging act be quickly done,
Disgrace for all — or death for one.

It is the season of repose,
And on her couch Ianthe throws
Those limbs of rarest symmetry,
That form as fair as form can be.
But 'tis not now her paramour
Shall while away the wakeful hour,
Which they have wasted many a night,
In dalliance and dear delight,
When her sire's rage — her husband's shame —
Her brother's wrath — forgotten all,
She yielded to wild passion's claim,
And let its chains her soul enthrall!
She sleeps — so lovely in that sleep
That love might gaze on her and weep —
That in a thing so bright — so fair —
Pollution, crime, should have a share;
That in her heart should ever rise
Aught but the holiest sympathies!
Yes! Love might weep o'er her to see
How seldom truth and beauty find —
How seldom charms and purity —
A common home in womankind?
She sleeps like a fair child in death,
And scarce she seems to draw that breath
Which many a youth will fondly swear
Is sweeter than the summer air.
Disordered lie those jetty tresses,
That oft 'mid amorous caresses,
O'er their meeting faces straying,
Shared kisses in that wanton playing.
She sleeps — an angel in her seeming,
So soft, so pure, so calm her dreaming!
And yet methinks instinctive fear
Might shake her soul with danger near;
And in dark visions she might see
The crime of infidelity
Punished; and in a father's hand
The fatal — the destroying brand!
And when her fear to phrenzy drew,
Might wake, alas! to find her dream too true;
For a father and a brother come,
Impelled by vengeance, hate, and shame,
And with them bring that frail one's doom
Who brought dishonour on their name.
With lighted torch, and sabre bare,
The sire and son are standing there!
Another hour — and he who gave
Life to his child — shall dig her grave!
" Better that she should lifeless be,
" Than live an hour in infamy;
" Her death alone can now restore
" The honour of our house once more. "
Thus spake the sire; but in the son
More gentle thoughts their way had won;
He looked on her, and deeply thought
On all their happy childhood wrought:
The pleasures of those vanished years,
Remembered now with grateful tears,
Unmanned him, and with sickened heart
He turned, and eager to depart,
Shrank from that bed of death. His sire
Discerned his weakness, and in ire
Cried loudly — " Art thou recreant too?
" Or fearest thou this just deed to do? "
That voice so well-known, harsh, and stern,
Awoke her; nor had she to learn
Their purpose in thus lowering there,
With brow of hate, and weapon bare.
She rose, and falling at his feet,
With piteous accents did she greet
Him who unmoved determined yet
In her heart's blood his steel to wet: —
" Oh! by those charms you loved to praise
" In early childhood's happy days; —
" By the paternal heart's content
" And hope, while I was innocent; —
" By all the lofty dream of joy
" Which I was destined to destroy —
" Oh! let a father's mercy now
" Soften thy heart, and smooth thy brow.
" But if the memory of me
" In better times appease not thee,
" By the dear memory of her
" Whose matron virtue could not err,
" Spare the frail offspring of her womb
" From this deserved but dreadful doom!
" Spare, save, forgive! " She could no more,
Her strength was gone — her hope was o'er;
For even while she pleaded thus,
That sire for vengeance furious,
Lifted the steel, which, to the hilt,
Sunk in that tender heart of guilt!
'Twas pride, 'twas rage that dealt the blow;
But pride nor rage could cure the woe,
Unsoothed by human care or art,
Which rent that wretched old man's heart.
Early his son was lost; — for him
Ianthe's eyes, with death-dew dim,
Pursued with melancholy power,
To his sad life's last lonely hour.
And though the stern sire strove to hide,
With mask of silence, coldness, pride,
The deep remorse that preyed within,
His utmost efforts could not win
The guerdon which he strove to gain;
All saw the still unceasing pain
Which burned his brain, and robbed his breast,
By day of peace — by night of rest.
And oh! how bitterly he felt
That the stern death his arm had dealt,
(Whate'er of vengeance he might feel)
It was not for a sire to deal!
The victim of remorse and pride,
Childless, forsaken, lone he died!