He wept, and they on his, in speechless woe,
And all was silence round. A thrilling voice
Called "Edipus !" the blood of all who heard
Congealed with fear, and every hair grew stiff.
"Oh, Edipus !" it cried, "oh, Edipus!
Why tarry we? for thee alone we wait!"
He recognized the summons of the god,
And calling Theseus to him, said: "Oh, friend!
Now take my children by the hand, and pledge
Thy faith inviolate, to afford them ever
Protection and support." The generous king
Fulfilled his wish, and bade high Jove record
The irrevocable vow. Then Edipus
Folded his daughters in his last embrace,
And said: "Farewell, my children! from this spot
Depart with fortitude: the will of fate
From all but Theseus veils the coming scene."
These words we heard: with the receding maids
We turned away awhile: reverting then
Our looks, the spot where Edipus had been
Was vacant, and King Theseus stood alone,
His hand before his eyes, his head bowed down,
As one oppressed with supernatural light,
Or sight of some intolerable thing.
Then falling prostrate, on the goddess Earth
He called, and Jove, and the Olympian gods.
How perished Edipus, to none beside
Is known for not the thunder-bolts of Jove
Consumed him, nor the whirlwinds of the deep
Rushed o'er his head and swept him from the world,
But with some silent messenger of fate
He passed away in peace, or that dark chasm
By which he stood, disclosed beneath his feet
A tranquil passage to the Stygian flood.
FROM THE HECUBA OF EURIPIDES.
OU fold your hand, Ulysses, in your robe, And turn your head aside as if to shun My abject suppliance. Fear not, Ithacan! With willing steps I follow thee, where thou And strong Necessity, thy queen and mine, Conduct me to my death. Base were my soul To beg a milder fate. Why should I live?
My father was a king: my youthful hopes
Were bright contending monarchs sought my hand: I moved illustrious 'mid the Idaan nymphs,
More like a goddess than an earthly maid,
Save in the sure necessity of death.
But now I am a slave: that single word
Makes death my sanctuary: never be it said,
A tyrant's gold could purchase Hector's sister,
To be the vilest handmaid of his house,
To drag long days of ignominious toil,
And waste her nights in solitary tears.
Or should I live to call some slave my lord,
Whom fortune reared to be the bride of kings?
No! let me rather close my eyes at once
On the pure light of heaven, to me no more
The light of liberty. Hope has no voice
For Priam's fallen race. I yield myself
A willing victim to the Stygian gods.
Nor thou, my mother, or with deed or word
Impede my course, but smile upon thy child,
Who finds in death a refuge from disgrace.
Hard is the task to bear the unwonted yoke,
And taste the cup of unaccustomed tears.
More blest are they, whom sudden fate absolves
From the long labour of inglorious life.
TO MR. TOBIN'S COMEDY OF THE "GUARDIANS," PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL DRURY LANE, NOVEMBER, 1816.
[Published in 1816.]
Spoken by MR.
EYOND the hopes and fears of earlier days,
The frowns of censure and the smiles of praise,
Is he, the bard, on whose untimely tomb,
Your favour bade the Thespian laurel bloom;
Though late the meel that crowned his minstrel strain,
It has not died, and was not given in vain.
If now our hopes one more memorial rear,
To blend with those that live unwithering here;
If on that tomb where genius sleeps in night,
One flower expands to bloom in lingering light,
Flower of a stem which no returning spring
Shall clothe anew with buds and blossoming;
Oh! yet again the votive wreath allow
To grace his name which cannot bind his brow;
And, while our tale the scenic maze pursues,
Still prove kind Guardians to his orphan muse.
TO THE COMEDY OF THE "GUARDIANS.”
Spoken by MR. HARLEY in the character of HINT.
T home, abroad, in gossip, or in print,
Who has not felt the magic power of Hint?
Say, lovely maid, what earthly power can move
That gentle bosom like a hint of love?
Say, thou spruce beau, oppressed with loads of raiment,
What half so shocking as a hint for payment?
A hint of need, drawn forth with sad concessions,
Stops the full flow of friendship's loud professions:
A hint of Hyde Park Ring from testy humours,
Stops Hint itself, when most agog for rumours.
Where'er I go, beaux, belles of all degrees,
Come buzzing round me like a swarm of bees:
My crafty hook of sly insinuation
I bait with hints, and fish for information.
"What news, dear Hint? it does us good to see
Your pleasant face: we're dying with ennui.”
"Me! bless you! I know nothing." "You're so sly:
You've something in your head:" "Indeed not I.
'Tis true, at Lady Rook's, just now I heard
A whisper pass. . . . I don't believe a word
A certain lady is not over blameless,
Touching a certain lord that shall be nameless."
"Who? who? pray tell." "Excuse me.” Nay, you shall." (In different voices)
"You mean my Lady Plume and Lord Fal-lal," "Lord Smirk and Mrs. Sparkle," "Lady Simple,
And young Lord Froth," "Lord Whip and Mrs. Dimple.” (In an Irish accent) "D'ye mean my wife, sir? give me leave to mention
There's no ill meaning in Lord Sly's attention:
Sir, there's my card : command me: I'll attend,
And talk the matter over with a friend."
"Dear Major! no such thing: you're right in scorning
Such idle tales: I wish you a good-morning."
Away I speed: from lounge to lounge I run,
With five tales loaded where I fished for one;
And, entre nous, take care the town shall know,
The Major's wife is not quite comme il faut.
But Hyde Park Ring my cunning shuns in vain,
If by your frowns I die in Drury Lane.
If die I must, think not I'll tamely fall:
Pit, boxes, gallery, thus I challenge all.
Ye critics near me, and ye gods afar!
Fair maid, spruce beau, plump cit, and jovial tar!
Come one and all, roused by my valorous greeting,
Te-morrow night to give bold Hint the meeting:
Bring all your friends-a host-I'll fit them nicely,
Place-Drury Lane-time, half-past-six precisely.
OR, CHILDE LAUNCELOT'S EXPEDITION.
ALLEGORICAL BALLAD.
[Reprinted in Summerly's Home Treasury, 1846.]
'ER bush and brier Childe Launcelot sprung * With ardent hopes elate,
And loudly blew the horn that hung
Before Sir Hornbook's gate.
The inner portals opened wide,
And forward strode the chief, Arrayed in paper helmet's pride,
And arms of golden leaf.
"What means," he cried, "this daring noise,
That wakes the summer day?
I hate all idle truant boys:
Away, Sir Childe, away!"
"No idle truant boy am I,"
Childe Launcelot answered straight; "Resolved to climb this hill so high, I seek thy castle gate.
"Behold the talisman I bear,
And aid my bold design :"
Sir Hornbook gazed, and written there,
Knew Emulation's sign.
"If Emulation sent thee here,"
Sir Hornbook quick replied,
"My merrymen all shall soon appear, To aid thy cause with shield and spear, And I will head thy bold career,
And prove thy faithful guide.'
Loud rung the chains; the drawbridge fell;
The gates asunder flew ;
The knight thrice beat the portal bell,
And thrice he called "Halloo."
Childe, in our old ballads, often signifies a knight.
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