Love And Honor

Sed neque Medorum silvae, ditissima terra Nec pulcher Ganges, atque auro turbidus Haemus, Laudibus Angligenum certent; non Bactra, nec Indi, Totaque thuriferis Panchaia pinguis arenis. Imitation. Yet let not Median woods, (abundant track!) Nor Ganges fair, nor Haemus, miser-like, Proud of his hoarded gold, presume to vie With Britain's boast and praise; nor Persian Bactra, Nor India's coasts, nor all Panchaia's sands, Rich, and exulting in their lofty towers. ____ Let the green olive glad Hesperian shores; Her tawny citron, and her orange groves, These let Iberia boast; but if in vain, To win the stranger plant's diffusive smile, The Briton labours, yet our native minds, Our constant bosoms, these the dazzled world May view with envy; these Iberian dames Survey with fix'd esteem and fond desire. Hapless Elvira! thy disastrous fate May well this truth explain, nor ill adorn The British lyre; then chiefly, if the Muse, Nor vain, nor partial, from the simple guise Of ancient record catch the pensive lay, And in less grovelling accents give to Fame. Elvira! loveliest maid! the Iberian realm Could boast no purer breast, no sprightlier mind, No race more splendent, and no form so fair. Such was the chance of war, this peerless maid, In life's luxuriant bloom, enrich'd the spoil Of British victors, victory's noblest pride! She, she alone, amid the wailful train Of captive maids, assign'd to Henry's care, Lord of her life, her fortune, and her fame! He, generous youth! with no penurious hand, The tedious moments, that unjoyous roll Where Freedom's cheerful radiance shines no more, Essay'd to soften; conscious of the pang That Beauty feels, to waste its fleeting hours In some dim fort, by foreign rule restrain'd, Far from the haunts of men, or eye of day! Sometimes, to cheat her bosom of its cares, Her kind protector number'd o'er the toils Himself had worn; the frowns of angry seas, Or hostile rage, or faithless friend, more fell Than storm or foe; if haply she might find Her cares diminish'd; fruitless, fond essay! Now to her lovely hand, with modest awe The tender lute he gave; she, not averse, Nor destitute of skill, with willing hand Call'd forth angelic strains; the sacred debt Of gratitude, she said, whose just commands Still might her hand with equal pride obey! Nor to the melting sounds the nymph refused Her vocal art; harmonious as the strain Of some imprison'd lark, who, daily cheer'd By guardian cares, repays them with a song; Nor droops, nor deems sweet liberty resign'd. The song, not artless had she framed to paint Disastrous passion; how, by tyrant laws Of idiot custom sway'd, some soft-eyed fair Loved only one, nor dared that love reveal! How the soft anguish banish'd from her cheek The damask rose full-blown; a fever came, And from her bosom forced the plaintive tale; Then, swift as light, he sought the love-lorn maid, But vainly sought her; torn by swifter fate To join the tenants of the myrtle shade, Love's mournful victims on the plains below. Sometimes, as Fancy spoke the pleasing task, She taught her artful needle to display The various pride of spring; then swift upsprung Thickets of myrtle, eglantine, and rose: There might you see, on gentle toils intent, A train of busy Loves; some pluck the flower, Some twine the garland, some with grave grimace Around a vacant warrior cast the wreath. 'Twas paint, 'twas life! and sure to piercing eyes The warrior's face depictured Henry's mien. Now had the generous chief with joy perused The royal scroll, which to their native home, Their ancient rights, uninjured, unredeem'd, Restored the captives. Forth with rapid haste To glad his fair Elvira's ear, he sprung, Fired by the bliss he panted to convey; But fired in vain! Ah! what was his amaze, His fond distress, when o'er her pallid face Dejection reign'd, and from her lifeless hand Down dropt the myrtle's fair unfinish'd flower! Speechless she stood; at length, with accents faint, 'Well may my native shore,' she said, 'resound Thy monarch's praise; and here Elvira prove Of thine forgetful; flowers shall cease to feel The fostering breeze, and Nature change her laws!' And now the grateful edict wide alarm'd The British host. Around the smiling youths, Call'd to their native scenes, with willing haste Their fleet unmoor; impatient of the love That weds each bosom to its native soil. The patriot passion! strong in every clime, How justly theirs who find no foreign sweets To dissipate their loves, or match their own. Not so Elvira! she, disastrous maid! Was doubly captive; power nor chance could loose The subtle bands; she loved her generous foe; She, where her Henry dwelt, her Henry smiled, Could term her native shore; her native shore, By him deserted, some unfriendly strand, Strange, bleak, forlorn! a desert waste and wild. The fleet careen'd, the wind propitious fill'd The swelling sails, the glittering transports waved Their pennants gay, and halcyons' azure wing, With flight auspicious, skimm'd the placid main. On her lone couch in tears Elvira lay, And chid the officious wind, the tempting sea, And wish'd a storm as merciless as tore Her labouring bosom. Fondly now she strove To banish passion; now the vassal days, The captive moments, that so smoothly past, By many an art recall'd; now from her lute With trembling fingers call'd the favourite sounds Which Henry deign'd to praise; and now essay'd, With mimic chains of silken fillets wove, To paint her captive state; if any fraud Might to her love the pleasing scenes prolong, And with the dear idea feast the soul. But now the chief return'd, prepared to launch On Ocean's willing breast, and bid adieu To his fair prisoner. She, soon as she heard His hated errand, now no more conceal'd The raging flame; but with a spreading blush And rising sigh, the latent pang disclosed. 'Yes, generous youth! I see thy bosom glow With virtuous transport, that the task is thine To solve my chains, and to my weeping friends, And every longing relative, restore A soft-eyed maid, a mild offenceless prey! But know, my Soldier! never youthful mind, Torn from the lavish joys of wild expense By him he loathed, and in a dungeon bound To languish out his bloom, could match the pains This ill-starr'd freedom gives my tortured mind. 'What call I freedom? is it that these limbs, From rigid bolts secure, may wander far From him I love? Alas! ere I may boast That sacred blessing, some superior power To mortal kings, to sublunary thrones, Must loose my passion, must unchain my soul: Even that I loathe: all liberty I loathe! But most the joyless privilege to gaze With cold indifference, where desert is love. 'True, I was born an alien to those eyes I ask alone to please; my fortune's crime! And ah! this flatter'd form, by dress endear'd To Spanish eyes, by dress may thine offend, Whilst I, ill-fated maid! ordain'd to strive With custom's load, beneath its weight expire. 'Yet Henry's beauties knew in foreign garb To vanquish me; his form, howe'er disguised, To me were fatal! no fantastic robe That e'er Caprice invented, Custom wore, Or Folly smiled on, could eclipse thy charms. 'Perhaps by birth decreed, by Fortune placed Thy country's foe, Elvira's warmest plea Seems but the subtler accent fraud inspires; My tenderest glances but the specious flowers, That shade the viper while she plots her wound. And can the trembling candidate of love Awake thy fears? and can a female breast, By ties of grateful duty bound, ensnare? Is there no brighter mien, no softer smile For love to wear, to dark Deceit unknown? Heaven search my soul! and if through all its cells Lurk the pernicious drop of poisonous guile, Full on my fenceless head its viall'd wrath May Fate exhaust, and for my happiest hour Exalt the vengeance I prepare for thee! 'Ah me! nor Henry's nor his country's foe, On thee I gazed, and Reason soon dispell'd Dim Error's gloom, and to thy favour'd isle Assign'd its total merit, unrestrain'd. Oh! lovely region to the candid eye! 'Twas there my fancy saw the Virtues dwell, The Loves, the Graces, play, and bless'd the soil That nurtured thee! for sure the Virtues form'd Thy generous breast; the Loves, the Graces plann'd Thy shapely limbs. Relation, birth, essay'd Their partial power in vain; again I gazed, And Albion's isle appear'd, amidst a tract Of savage wastes, the darling of the skies! And thou, by Nature form'd, by Fate assign'd, To paint the genius of thy native shore. ''Tis true, with flowers, with many a dazzling scene Of burnish'd plants, to lure a female eye, Iberia glows; but, ah! the genial sun, That gilds the lemon's fruit, or scents the flower, On Spanish minds, a nation's nobler boast, Beams forth ungentle influences. There Sits Jealousy enthroned, and at each ray Exultant lights his slow consuming fires. Not such thy charming region; long before My sweet experience taught me to decide Of English worth, the sound had pleased mine ear. Is there that savage coast, that rude sojourn, Stranger to British worth? the worth which forms The kindest friends, the most tremendous foes; First, best supports of liberty and love! No, let subjected India, while she throws O'er Spanish deeds the veil, your praise resound. Long as I heard, or ere in story read Of English fame, my biass'd partial breast Wish'd them success: and happiest she, I cried, Of women happiest she, who shares the love, The fame, the virtues, of an English lord. And now, what shall I say? Blest be the hour Your fair-built vessels touch'd the Iberian shores: Blest, did I say, the time? if I may bless That loved event, let Henry's smiles declare. Our hearts and cities won, will Henry's youth Forego its nobler conquest? will he slight The soft endearments of the lovelier spoil? And yet Iberia's sons, with every vow Of lasting faith, have sworn these humble charms Were not excell'd; the source of all their pains, And love her just desert, who sues for love, But sues to thee, while natives sigh in vain. 'Perhaps in Henry's eye (for vulgar minds Dissent from his) it spreads a hateful stain On honest Fame, amid his train to bear A female friend. Then learn, my gentle youth! Not Love himself, with all the pointed pains That store his quiver, shall seduce my soul From honour's laws. Elvira once denied A consort's name, more swift than lightning flies When elements discordant vex the sky, Shall, blushing, from the form she loves retire. Yet if the specious wish the vulgar voice Has titled Prudence, sways a soul like thine, In gems or gold what proud Iberian dame Eclipses me? Nor paint the dreary storms Or hair-breadth 'scapes that haunt the boundless deep, And force from tender eyes the silent tear; When Memory to the pensive maid suggests, In full contrast, the safe domestic scene For these resign'd. Beyond the frantic rage Of conquering heroes brave, the female mind, When steel'd by love, in Love's most horrid way Beholds not danger, or, beholding, scorns. Heaven take my life, but let it crown my love!' She ceased; and ere his words her fate decreed, Impatient, watch'd the language of his eye: There Pity dwelt, and from its tender sphere Sent looks of love, and faithless hopes inspired. 'Forgive me, generous maid!' the youth return'd, 'If by thy accents charm'd, thus long I bore To let such sweetness plead, alas! in vain. Thy virtue merits more than crowns can yield Of solid bliss, or happiest love bestow But ere from native shores I plough'd the main, To one dear maid, by virtue, and by charms Alone endear'd, my plighted vows I gave; To guard my faith, whatever chance should wait My warring sword: if conquest, fame, and spoil, Graced my return, before her feet to pour The glittering treasure, and the laurel wreath, Enjoying conquest then, and fame and spoil: If Fortune frown'd adverse, and Death forbade The blissful union, with my latest breath To dwell on Medway's and Maria's name. This ardent vow deep-rooted, from my soul No dangers tore; this vow my bosom fired To conquer danger, and the spoil enjoy. Her shall I leave, with fair events elate, Who crown'd mine humblest fortune with her love? Her shall I leave, who now, perchance, alone Climbs the proud cliff, and chides my slow return? And shall that vessel, whose approaching sails Shall swell her breast with extasies, convey Death to her hopes, and anguish to her soul? No! may the deep my villain corse devour, If all the wealth Iberian mines conceal, If all the charms Iberian maids disclose, If thine, Elvira, thine, uniting all, Thus far prevail-nor can thy virtuous breast Demand what honour, faith, and love, denies.' 'Oh! happy she,' rejoin'd the pensive maid, 'Who shares thy fame, thy virtue, and thy love! And be she happy! thy distinguish'd choice Declares her worth, and vindicates her claim. Farewell my luckless hopes! my flattering dreams Of rapturous days! my guilty suit, farewell! Yet fond howe'er my plea, or deep the wound That waits my fame, let not the random shaft Of Censure pierce with me the Iberian dames; They love with caution, and with happier stars. And, oh! by pity moved, restrain the taunts Of levity, nor brand Elvira's flame; By merit raised, by gratitude approved, By hope confirm'd, with artless truth reveal'd, Let, let me say, but for one matchless maid Of happier birth, with mutual ardour crown'd. 'These radiant gems, which burnish Happiness, But mock Misfortune, to thy favourite's hand With care convey; and well may such adorn Her cheerful front, who finds in thee alone The source of every transport, but disgrace My pensive breast, which, doom'd to lasting woe, In thee the source of every bliss resign. 'And now, farewell, thou darling youth! the gem Of English merit! Peace, content, and joy, And tender hopes, and young desires, farewell! Attend, ye smiling Train! this gallant mind Back to his native shores; there sweetly smooth His evening pillow, dance around his groves, And, where he treads, with violets paint his way: But leave Elvira! leave her, now no more Your frail companion! in the sacred cells Of some lone cloister let me shroud my shame There to the matin bell, obsequious, pour My constant orisons. The wanton Loves And gay Desires, shall spy the glimmering towers, And wing their flight aloof: but rest confirm'd, That never shall Elvira's tongue conclude Her shortest prayer, ere Henry's dear success The warmest accent of her zeal employ.' Thus spoke the weeping fair, whose artless mind Impartial scorn'd to model her esteem By native customs; dress, and face, and air, And manners, less; nor yet resolved in vain. He, bound by prior love, the solemn vow Given and received, to soft compassion gave A tender tear; then with that kind adieu Esteem could warrant, wearied Heaven with prayers To shield that tender breast he left forlorn. He ceased; and to the cloister's pensive scene Elvira shaped her solitary way.