LOVE'S VICTIMS: THE HERMIT's STORY, CANTO I

Past was each gay, each joyous hour; No more we festive play'd In Pleasure's brightly-sparkling bow'r, Or Wealth's luxurious shade!

But who on Truth's unerring beam Shall earthyy blessings weigh, Will learn how oft the world's esteem On wealth is thrown away.

The source of human bliss, or woe, Where shall enquiry find? Alas! the wretched only know— 'Tis lodg'd within the mind.

'Midst toils severe, and labor rude, Far from our native shore, In long and hopeless servitude The pains of life we bore.

Yet Emma here, by sorrow taught, Preserv'd love's constant flame; And Emma's love was all I sought, "Twas ease, 'twas wealth, 'twas fame!

Haply one Master's stern command Our equal lot receiv'd; And fond to aid, my stronger hand Her fainting toil reliev'd.

Custom unchang'd contentment gave; We view'd our dangers past; And, 'scap'd from Fortune's troubled wave, Here found repose at last.

Our chasten'd thoughts the wish inspire Religion's bonds to prove, And turn the wand'rings of desire To pure, connubial love.

What though no white-rob'd priest was near, Our hands no altar join'd, Yet angels stoop'd our vows to hear, And Heav'n the record sign'd.

Fain would I pause, and o'er the rest Of my distressful tale, Could mem'ry die within my breast, For ever cast a veil:

But conscious duty prompts me here My sorrows to renew; My trembling lips, with words of fear, Their painful task pursue.

To him, whose pow'r our toils confest, On Gallia's fairer shore One only son, in hour unblest, A long-lost consort bore.

The father watch'd the pleasing care Through childhood's tender stage, Of all his treasur'd wealth the heir, And comfort of his age.

Now bold in manhood, fierce and strong, In wealth and pow'r elate, Proudly he view'd the subject throng, And held tyrannic state.

By love subdued, his ardent eye He fix'd on Emma's charms, And doom'd, in heedless luxury, The victim to his arms.

His subtle arts assail'd her truth; Those arts my Emma spurn'd; Stung by her scorn, the haughty youth In wild resentment burn'd.

The guilt his lawless soul desir'd, Insulting force essay'd: I saw, with rage indignant fir'd, And rush'd to Emma's aid.

Perish, presumptuous slave! he cried, And aim'd a deadly wound; My bosom own'd its injur'd pride— I fell'd him to the ground.

The hunter meets no swifter blow, Who vent'rous points the chace, Where lurks the tiger low'ring low, And guards his infant race.

Awhile the spirit's quiv'ring flame Upon life's confines play'd; The fled, and veil'd the wretch's shame In death's eternal shade.

Horrid the deed! but greater dread Our future hours display; Stern vengeance, hov'ring o'er my head, Must mark its helpless prey.

Alternate ill alone remain'd; To stay—'twas death; to fly— From every good that life contain'd! 'Twas with more pain to die.

What voice my ling'ring doubts reprov'd, And bade for flight prepare? "Thy Emma, ah! too dearly lov'd, "Thy dang'rous flight shall share:

"With thee I'll range the desert wide, "While life shall strength supply; "Content to suffer at thy side, "Blest in thy arms to die."

"Cease, Emma, cease! too fondly true! "Thou tempt'st a certain doom; Despair must still our flight pursue, "And Horror's endless gloom.

"Where should, alas! our footsteps stray? "We wander hence in vain; "Famine, or ruthless beasts of prey "Await us on the plain."

The ardor of that dauntless breast Nor words, nor pray'rs allay; With eager look, my hand she prest, And daring, led the way.