The Interview

O WE HAVE MET, and now I call On you dark clouds that as they fall, Sweep their long show'rs across the plain, Or mingle with the clam'rous main. Alas! I call them here, to pour Around my head that gather'd store, While the loud gales which speed away To the far edge of weeping day, Mid the tumultuous gloom shall bear On their wet wings my sigh'd despair.

OF LATE—where confluent torrens crash, I paus'd to view the mazy dash Of waters, shattering in the twilight beam; While oft my wand'ring eye would trace The distant forest's solemn grace. As o'er its black robe hung the tawny gleam. Nor then on joys gone by, my Mem'ry dwelt, Nor all the pangs which wounded Friendship felt; But ANNA, tho' unknown, usurp'd my mind, Alone she claim'd the tributary tear, For ev'ry solace, ev'ry charm combin'd In the sweet madd'nings of her song sincere.

Sudden I turn—for from a young grove's shade, Whose infant boughs but mock th' expecting glade, Sweet sounds stole forth—upborne upon the gale, Press'd thro' the air, and broke amidst the vale. Then silent walk'd the breezes of the plain, Or lightly wanton'd where the corn-flow'r blows, Or 'mongst the od'rous wild-thyme sought repose, Or soar'd aloft and seiz'd the hov'ring strain.

As the fond Lark, whose clear and piercing shake Bids Morning on her crimson bed awake, Hears from the greensward seat his fav'rite's cry, Drops thro' the heav'ns, and scorns the glowing sky: So I, soul-touch'd, th' impetuous Cat'ract leave, And almost seem th' etherial waste to cleave, Allur'd entranc'd, I rush amidst the wood, AND THERE THE SOFT MUSICIAN CONSCIOUS STOOD: Ah! 'twas no visionary Fair, Imagination's bodied air That now with strong illusion caught, Mental creations fled my thought, A living Angel bless'd my sight, Strung ev'ry nerve to new delight, With joy's full tide bedew'd my cheek, 'Twas ANNA's self I saw, NOR HAD I POW'R TO SPEAK. O then I led her to the woven bow'r, Where slept the Woodbine's shelter'd flow'r, Where bending o'er the Violet's bed The Rose its liquid blushes shed; While near the feather'd Mourner flung Such plaints from his enamour'd tongue, That all subdued at my MATILDA's feet I sunk, but with an agony more sweet, Than favour'd mortal e'er before had proved, Or ever yet conceiv'd unless like me he loved.

SHE SPOKE, but O! no sound was heard Of the wanton, rapt'rous bird, That climbs the morning's upmost sky, When first the golden vapours fly; But fainter was the moving measure, Than the Linnet's noontide leisure Lets the sultry breezes steal— Dar'st thou, my tongue! the tale reveal?

"ILL-FATED BARD!" she cried, "whose length|'ning grief Had won the pathos of my lyre's relief, For whom, full oft, I've loiter'd to rehearse In phrenzied mood the deep impassion'd verse, Ill-fated Bard! from each frail hope remove, And shun the certain Suicide of Love: Lean not to me, th' impassion'd verse is o'er, Which chain'd thy heart, and forc'd thee to adore: For O! observe where haughty Duty stands, Her form in radiance drest, her eye severe, Eternal Scorpions writhing in her hands To urge th' offender's unavailing tear! Dread Goddess, I obey! Ah! smooth thy awful terror-striking brow, Hear and record MATILDA's sacred vow! Ne'er will I quit th' undeviating LINE, Whose SOURCE THOU art, and THOU the LAW DIVINE. The Sun shall be subdued, his system fade, Ere I forsake the path thy FIAT made; Yet grant one soft regretful tear to flow, Prompted by pity for a Lover's woe, O grant, without REVENGE, one bursting sigh, Ere from his desolating grief I fly.— 'Tis past,—Farewel! ANOTHER claims my heart, Then wing thy sinking steps, for here we part, WE PART! and listen, for the word is MINE, ANNA MATILDA NEVER CAN BE THINE!"

She ceas'd, and sudden like an evening wind Rushing, some prison'd tempest to unbind, And all regardless of the scenes it leaves, Skimming o'er bending blooms, and russet sheaves, MATILDA fled! the closing Night pursu'd, And the cold INGRATE scarce I longer view'd; Her form grew indistinct—each step more dim, And now a distant vapour seems to swim, Her white robe glistens on my eye no more, Its strainings are all in vain—THE FOND DELUSION'S O'ER.

MY SONG SUBSIDES, yet ere I close The ling'ring lay that feeds my woes, Ere yet forgotten DELLA CRUSCA runs To torrid gales, or petrifying suns, Ere bow'd to earth my latest feeling flies, And the big passion settles on my eyes; O may this sacred sentiment be known, That my adoring heart is ANNA'S OWN; YES, ALL HER OWN, and tho' ANOTHER claim Her mind's rich treasure, still I love the same; And tho' ANOTHER, O how blest! has felt Her soften'd soul in dear delirium melt, While from her gaze the welcome meaning sprung, As on her neck in frantic joy he hung, Yet I will bear it, and tho' Hell deride, My pangs shall sooth, my curse shall be my pride. Nor can HE boast like me; O no, HE found The tranquillizing balm that cures the wound; HE never knew the loftier bliss, to rave, Without a pow'r to aid, a chance to save; HE never bath'd him in the Nightshade's dew, Nor drank the pois'nous meteors as they flew, Nor told his rending story to the Moon, Link'd with the demons of her direct noon; HE never smil'd Distraction's ills to share, Nor gain'd th' exalted glory of despair.

Then be it HIS, for many a year t' enfold Those charms, and wanton in her curls of gold, Drain the sweet fountain of her eye's fond stream, And fancy suff'rance but the wretch's dream; While I will prove that I deserve my fate, Was born for anguish, and was form'd for hate, With such transcendent woe will breathe my sigh, That envying fiends shall think it ECSTACY, And with fierce taunts my cherish'd griefs invade, Till on my pow'rless tongue the last "MATILDA" fade.