Impatient of the load of wretched life,
Their fierce demeanour, and denouncing death,
Each dark and frowning brow Estrildis saw,
And saw unmov'd. What ills had fate in store, What could inventive cruelty inflict,
Which to her anxious mind the busy hand
Of fancy, in the sad and lonely hour,
In all its horrors had not yet pourtray'd?
Not so the damsel train. With piercing shrieks They rend the air, and now with frantic gesture Crowd round their much-lov'd mistress. On her robe One clings in speechless woe: one bathes her hand With tears; one fondly twines her clasping arms
About her slender waist; another seeks
To print upon her lips a parting kiss;
This, rolling in the dust, her graceful locks
Tears from the roots, and beats her wretched breast;
That with loud cries arraigns relentless heav'n. She with mild action sooths their stormy grief,
And thanks their faithful love. Advancing now,
A rude unmanner'd ruffian from her brow,
The mark of royalty, (so will'd the queen) The sacred fillet tore with churlish hand.
Another with opprobrious taunts revil'd. Behind her back the harsh and galling chain
Confin'd her snowy wrists. With threat'ning voice Now the rough soldier urg'd her trembling steps. Her beauteous eyes, suffus'd with tears, she rais'd With such a sweet and moving eloquence,
That all at once his savage soul was mov'd, And his stern nature, long to sights of woe Inur'd, and practis'd in the trade of blood, Now first to pity yielded. Through the band Spread swift the soft contagion. Now they saw With alter'd mind each soul-enchanting grace Borrowing a nameless, and resistless charm From her sad fate. Such was the general woe,
So were their rugged bosoms mov'd, it seem'd As if the daughter, or the wife of each
Was led to instant death. And now they came
Where held the rival queen her throned state. Soon as impatient Guendolen beheld
The object of her hate thus fall'n, and captive, A gloomy joy her features overspread.
"Is this," she cried, "is this the boasted form
At whose superior lustre my weak charms Must fade away, no more to wake desire? Is this the haughty dame, whose stern decree Has sentenc'd Guendolen to shameful exile ? Say, does thy mercy yet revoke the doom, Or can no pray'rs thy stubborn heart subdue?" Th' ungenerous insult the fair mourner heard With silent anguish. Prostrate on the earth, Before the feet of her relentless foe,
"By those who gave thee birth,
By the dear name of mother," she exclaims,
"For oh, canst thou, who bear'st a mother's name,
Behold my sorrows with unpitying eyes? Not for myself I plead. (Too well I know What fatal doom awaits me.) But my child
She never has offended. Look on her,
Oh bend thine eyes upon her, see, she kneels,
She weeps, poor victim of her mother's guilt. Oh let not virgin innocence in vain
On tender mercy call. Oh spare her, spare her,
And ages yet unborn shall bless thy name.
Ev'n in the gloomy regions of the dead,
Thy Locrine's spirit shall rejoicing hear,
And thank the goodness which preserves his child. Ah, wherefore dost thou frown? Yes, let me perish,
I own my guilt, prepare new torments for me. Patient I suffer, and in death my voice
Shall speak thy praise, so thou but bid me hope My child, my darling Sabra may survive." "Urge me no more," the haughty dame replies, 66 My soul is fix'd immoveable as fate."
Detested wretch! driv'n from my husband's bed, Hurl'd from a throne, the daughter of Corineus- By thee has wander'd forth a woeful exile. How many heroes by thy crimes have fall'n!
What widows mourn, what orphans thou hast made!
Locrine died. And would'st thou now
Plead the curst fruit of thy pernicious joys
To win reluctant mercy? No, the ghosts Of myriads in thy fatal quarrel slain,
My husband's spirit, call for signal vengeance. Thou diest, and she, the minion of thy love, Is she not thine, and shall she hope for mercy Thus while she speaks, Estrildis' soul is torn With racking anguish. Now she knows all hope Extinguish'd, and the near approach of death, Inevitable death, beholds: now all
The mother swells her breast: with eager eyes She gazes on her child; the galling chain Forbids a last embrace. The tender maid Lifts her imploring hands in pray'r to heav'n. Now by each fond endearing name she calls Her agonizing parent; now entreats Remorseless Guendolen, and weeps aloud, But, lo, the ministers of death approach.
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