Poems (Campbell)/Eloiza
ELOIZA.
The silver Moon, pale queen of starry night,Hangs in the firmament her crescent bright;Millions of stars the azure concave stud,And tiny fairies trip along the wood;The streamlet gurgling o'er its shallow bed,To Cynthia glances through the chequer'd shade; All, all is hush'd in soft and calm repose,And scarce a zephyr wooes the fragrant rose;And mortal eyes in heavy slumber seal'd,Now trace in dreams the future fate reveal'd.
And is each eye in heavy slumber clos'd?And is each form on tranquil couch repos'd?—Does no rude sorrow banish gentle sleep,And leave the wretch through the long night to weep?Ab, me! from many an eye the dewy charmIs wash'd away by tears, and wild alarm!Remorseless mem'ry holds unwearied sway,And gives to night the restlessness of day.
But who is she, that with her beauteous armsCross'd on her heaving bosom's snowy charms,Thus with quick step and throbbing breast is seen,Wand'ring like airy sprite the dewy green?But she can shed no tear, and breathe no sigh;—See! vacant frenzy flashes in her eye!Oh! why should reason and her happy trainForsake that soul unsullied by a stain?—
Poor Eloiza was no vulgar maid,Though nurs'd by nature in the rural shade;Her face and form were lovely, and her mindWas virtuous, modest, noble, frank, and kind;—No lurking ill her spotless bosom knew;Her virtues many, and her errors few.—And could not beauty, worth, and youth combin'd,Insure their blessings to so pure a mind!—
Young Hargrave came, the abject slave of gold,And in her ear deceitful story told;With subtle fraud assum'd each grace refin'd,And only prais'd the beauties of her mind;Practis'd each wily stratagem to moveHer tender pity, and to win her love;Nor woo'd in vain; and Eloiza's heartToo soon confess'd the triumph of his art,But when he found no wealth could e'er rewardHis boasted passion, and his feign'd regard,He fled—and left her wretched and betray'd,To court a richer, not a lovelier maid.
And now, alas! when heav'n's refulgent firesAre lighted up, and weary man retiresTo taste the pleasures of refreshing sleep,Poor Eloiza wakes to watch and weep.—Beneath yon wood's impervious shade she roves,The gloomy haunt that Eloiza loves;Or by yon cataract's tremendous height,That sparkling, flashing to the moon's pale light,Roars down its rocky channel; and at eve,Where rippling waves the sandy sea-beach lave,Oft is she seen her hasty steps to urgeAlong the margin of the murm'ring surge;Or, careless hanging o'er some craggy steep,Wash'd by the foamy billows of the deep,List'ning, with vacant eye, to the loud roarOf restless waves against the rocky shore.No parent now remains her griefs to soothe,No youthful friend her rugged couch to smooth, No brother's aid her wand'ring steps to guide,No cheering home her wretched limbs to hide;Alone, uncomforted, her feeble formIs left unshelter'd to the ruthless storm.
But thou, oh, Hargrave! author of her woes,Canst thou enjoy the sweetness of repose?Say, does not oft that faded form appearBeside thy bed, and claim the gushing tear;Telling thy dreams the woe she doth endure,Griefs without hope, and pangs without a care?For say, canst thou her blighted peace restore,Or bid distemper'd reason shine once more?—Ah! no,—remorse and anguish soon shall seizeThy faithless heart, and break thy fancied ease;—Her wrongs, her woes, shall haunt thee night and day,And drive each comfort from thy soul away;While she above each earthly care shall rise,And pitying, view thee from her native skies.