Scene.—A MADHOUSE. Persons. VISITOR, PHYSICIAN, AND PATIENT. Veris miscens falsa.— Seneca in Herc. furente. VISITOR. I’ll know no more;—the Heart is torn By Views of Woe, we cannot heal; Long shall I see these Things forlorn, And oft again their Griefs shall feel, As each upon the Mind shall steal; That wan Projector’s mystic Style, That lumpish Idiot leering by, That peevish Idler’s ceaseless Wile, And that poor Maiden’s half-form’d Smile, While struggling for the full-drawn Sigh!—- I’ll know no more. PHYSICIAN. — Yes, turn again; Then speed to happier Scenes thy Way, When thou hast view’d, what yet remain, The Ruins of Sir Eustace Grey, The Sport of Madness, Misery’s Prey: But he will no Historian need, His Cares, his Crimes will he display, And shew (as one from Frenzy freed) The proud-lost Mind, the rash-done Deed. That Cell, to him is Greyling Hall:— Approach; he’ll bid thee welcome there; Will sometimes for his Servant call, And sometimes point the vacant Chair: He can, with free and easy air, Appear attentive and polite; Can veil his Woes in Manners fair, And Pity with Respect excite. PATIENT. Who comes?—Approach!—‘Tis kindly done:— My learn’d Physician, and a Friend, Their Pleasures quit, to visit One, Who cannot to their Ease attend, As when I liv’d so blest, so well, And dream’d not, I must soon contend With those malignant Powers of Hell. PHYSICIAN. “Less warmth, Sir Eustace, or we go.”— PATIENT. See! I am calm as Infant-Love, A very Child, but one of Woe, Whom you should pity, not reprove:— But Men at ease, who never strove With Passions wild, will calmly show, How soon we may their Ills remove, And Masters of their Madness grow. Some twenty Years I think are gone,— (Time flies, I know not how, away,) The Sun upon no happier shone, Nor prouder Man, than Eustace Grey. Ask where you would, and all would say, The Man admir’d and prais’d of all, By Rich and Poor, by Grave and Gay, Was the young Lord of Greyling Hall. Was nobly form’d, as Man might be; For Sickness then, of all my Wealth, I never gave a single Fee: The Ladies fair, the Maidens free, Were all accustom’d then to say, Who would an handsome Figure see, Should look upon Sir Eustace Grey. He had a frank and pleasant Look, A cheerful Eye and Accent bland; His very Speech and Manner spoke The generous Heart, the open Hand; About him all was gay or grand, He had the Praise of Great and Small; He bought, improv’d, projected, plann’d, And reign’d a Prince at Greyling Hall. My Lady!—she was all we love; All Praise (to speak her Worth) is faint; Her Manners shew’d the yielding Dove, Her Morals, the seraphic Saint; She never breath’d nor look’d Complaint, No Equal upon Earth had she:—- Now, what is this fair Thing I paint? Alas! as all that live, shall be. And him my Bosom’s Friend, I had:—- Oh!I was rich—in very truth, It made me proud—it made me mad!— Yes I was lost—but there was Cause!—— Where stood my Tale?—I cannot find— But I had all Mankind’s Applause, And all the Smiles of Womankind. There were two Cherub-things beside, A gracious Girl, a glorious Boy; Yet more to swell my full-blown Pride, To varnish higher my fading Joy, Pleasures were ours without alloy, Nay Paradise,—- till my frail Eve Our Bliss was tempted to destroy; Deceiv’d and fated to deceive. But I deserv’d; for all that time, When I was lov’d, admir’d, caress’d, There was within, each secret Crime, Unfelt, uncancell’d, unconfess’d; I never then my God address’d, In grateful Praise or humble Prayer; And if His Word was not my Jest! (Dread thought!) it never was my Care. I doubted:—Fool I was to doubt! If that all-piercing Eye could see,— If He who looks all Worlds throughout, Would so minute and careful be, As to perceive and punish me:— With Man I would be great and high, But with my God so lost, that He, In his large View, should pass me by. Thus blest with Children, Friend, and Wife, Blest far beyond the vulgar Lot; Of all that gladdens human Life, Where was the Good, that I had not? But my vile Heart had sinful Spot, And Heaven beheld its deep’ning Stain, Eternal Justice I forgot, And Mercy, sought not to obtain. Come near,—- I’ll softly speak the rest!— Alas! ’tis known to all the Crowd, Her guilty Love was all confest; And his, who so much Truth avow’d, My faithless Friends.—In Pleasure proud I sat, when these curs’d Tidings came; Their Guilt, their Flight was told aloud, And Envy smil’d to hear my shame! I call’d on Vengeance; at the Word She came:—Can I the Deed forget? I held the Sword, th’ accursed Sword, The Blood of his false Heart made wet; And that fair Victim paid her Debt, She pin’d, she died, she loath’d to live;— I saw her dying—see her yet: Fair fallen Thing! my Rage forgive! Those Cherubs still, my Life to bless, Were left; could I my Fears remove, Sad Fears that check’d each fond Caress, And poison’d all parental Love: Yet that, with jealous Feelings strove, And would at last have won my Will, Had I not, Wretch! been doom’d to prove Th’ Extremes of mortal Good and Ill. In Youth! Health! Joy! in Beauty’s Pride! They droop’d: As Flowers when blighted bow, The dire Infection came:—They died, And I was curs’d—as I am now—— Nay frown not, angry Friend,—allow, That I was deeply, sorely tried; Hear then, and you must wonder how I could such Storms and Strifes abide. Storms!—not that Clouds embattled make, When they afflict this earthly Globe; But such as with their Terrors shake Man’s Breast, and to the bottom probe; They make the Hypocrite disrobe, They try us all, if false or true; For this, one Devil had pow’r on Job; And I was long the Slave of two. PHYSICIAN. Peace, peace, my Friend; these Subjects fly; Collect thy Thoughts—go calmly on.— PATIENT. And shall I then the Fact deny? I was,—thou know’st,—I was begone, Like him who fill’d the Eastern Throne, To whom the Watcher cried aloud That royal Wretch of Babylon, Who was so guilty and so proud. Like him with haughty, stubborn Mind, I, in my State, my Comforts sought; Delight and Praise I hop’d to find, In what I builded, planted, bought! Soon came a Voice! I felt it come; “Full be his Cup, with Evil fraught, “DÆmons his Guides, and Death his Doom!” Then was I cast from out my State; Two Fiends of Darkness led my Way; They wak’d me early, watch’d me late, My Dread by Night, my Plague by Day! Oh! I was made their Sport, their Play, Through many a stormy troubled Year, And how they us’d their passive Prey, Is sad to tell: but you shall hear. And first, before they sent me forth, Through this unpitying World to run, They robb’d Sir Eustace of his Worth, Lands, Manors, Lordships, every one; So was that gracious Man undone, Was spurn’d as vile, was scorn’d as poor, Whom every former Friend would shun, And Menials drove from every Door. Then those ill-favour’d Ones But my unhappy Eyes could view, And, with resistless Terror, drew. Through Lands we fled, o’er Seas we flew, And halted on a boundless Plain; Where nothing fed, nor breath’d nor grew, But Silence rul’d the still Domain. Upon that boundless Plain, below, The setting Sun’s last Rays were shed, And gave a mild and sober Glow, Where all were still, asleep or dead; Vast Ruins in the midst were spread, Pillars and Pediments sublime, Where the grey Moss had form’d a Bed, And cloth’d the crumbling Spoils of Time. There was I fix’d, I know not how, Condemn’d for untold Years to stay; Yet Years were not;—one dreadful Now, Endur’d no Change of Night or Day; The same mild Evening’s sleeping Ray, Shone softly-solemn and serene. And all that time, I gaz’d away, The setting Sun’s sad Rays were seen. At length a Moment’s Sleep stole on,— Again came my commission’d Foes; Again through Sea and Land we’re gone, No Peace, no Respite, no Repose; Above the dark broad Sea we rose, We ran through bleak and frozen Land; I had no Strength, their Strength t’ oppose, An Infant in a Giant’s hand. They plac’d me where those Streamers play, Those nimble Beams of brilliant Light; It would the stoutest Heart dismay, To see, to feel, that dreadful Sight: So swift, so pure, so cold, so bright, They pierc’d my Frame with icy Wound, And all that half-year’s polar Night, Those dancing Streamers wrapt me round. Slowly that Darkness pass’d away, When down upon the Earth I fell,— Some hurried Sleep, was mine by day; But soon as toll’d the Evening Bell, They forc’d me on, where-ever dwell Far-distant Men in Cities fair, Cities of whom no Travellers tell, Nor Feet but mine were Wanderers there. Their Watchmen stare, and stand aghast, As on we hurry through the dark; The Watch-light blinks, as we go past, The Watch-dog shrinks and fears to bark; The Watch-tower’s Bell sounds shrill; and, hark! The free Wind blows—we’ve left the Town— A wide Sepulchral Ground I mark, And on a Tomb-stone place me down. What Monuments of mighty Dead! What Tombs of various kinds are found! And Stones erect, their Shadows shed, On humble Graves, with Wickers bound; Some risen fresh, above the Ground, Some level with the native Clay, What sleeping Millions wait the Sound, “Arise, ye Dead, and come away!” Alas! they stay not for that Call; Spare me this Woe! ye DÆmons, spare!— They come! the shrowded Shadows all,— ’Tis more than mortal Brain can bear! Rustling they rise, they sternly glare At Man upheld by vital Breath; Who led by wicked Fiends should dare To join the shadowy Troops of Death! Yes! I have felt all Man can feel, Till he shall pay his Nature’s Debt; Ills that no Hope has Strength to heal, No Mind the Comfort to forget: Whatever Cares the Heart can fret, The Spirits wear, the Temper gall; Woe, Want, Dread, Anguish, all beset My sinful Soul!—together all! Those Fiends, upon a shaking Fen, Fix’d me, in dark tempestuous Night; There never trod the Foot of Men, There flock’d the Fowl in wint’ry Flight; There danc’d the Moor’s deceitful Light, Above the Pool where Sedges grow; And when the Morning-Sun shone bright, It shone upon a Field of Snow. They hung me on a Bough, so small, The Rook could build her Nest no higher; They fix’d me on the trembling Ball, That crowns the Steeple’s quiv’ring Spire; They set me where the Seas retire, But drown with their returning Tide; And made me flee the Mountain’s Fire, When rolling from its burning Side. I’ve hung upon the ridgy Steep Of Cliffs, and held the rambling Brier; I’ve plung’d below the billowy Deep, Where Air was sent me to respire; I’ve been where hungry Wolves retire; And (to complete my Woes) I’ve ran, Where Bedlam’s crazy Crew conspire Against the Life of reasoning Man. I’ve furl’d in Storms the flapping Sail, By banging from the Top-mast-head; I’ve serv’d the vilest Slaves in Jail, And pick’d the Dunghill’s Spoil for Bread; I’ve made the Badger’s Hole my Bed, I’ve wander’d with a Gipsey Crew, I’ve dreaded all the Guilty dread, And done what they would fear to do. On Sand where ebbs and flows the Flood, Midway they plac’d and bade me die; Propt on my Staff, I stoutly stood When the swift Waves came rolling by; And high they rose, and still more high, Till my Lips drank the bitter Brine; I sobb’d convuls’d, then cast mine Eye And saw the Tide’s re-flowing Sign. And then, my Dreams were such as nought Could yield but my unhappy Case; I’ve been of thousand Devils caught, And thrust into that horrid Place, Where reign Dismay, Despair, Disgrace; Furies with iron Fangs were there, To torture that accursed Race, Doom’d to Dismay, Disgrace, Despair. Harmless I was; yet hunted down For Treasons, to my Soul unfit; I’ve been pursued through many a Town, For Crimes that petty Knaves commit: I’ve been adjudg’d t’ have lost my Wit, Because I preach’d so loud and well, And thrown into the Dungeon’s Pit, For trampling on the Pit of Hell. Such were the Evils, Man of Sin, That I was fated to sustain; And add to all, without—within, A Soul defil’d with every Stain, That Man’s reflecting Mind can pain; That Pride, Wrong, Rage, Despair can make; In fact, they’d nearly touch’d my Brain, And Reason on her Throne would shake. But Pity will the vilest seek, If punish’d Guilt will not repine,— I heard an heavenly Teacher speak, And felt the Sun of Mercy shine: I hail’d the Light! the Birth divine! And then was seal’d among the few; Those angry Fiends beheld the Sign; And from me in an instant flew. Come hear how thus, the Charmers cry, To wandering Sheep the Strays of Sin; While some the Wicket-gate pass by, And some will knock and enter in; Full joyful ’tis a Soul to win, For he that winneth Souls is wise; Now hark! the holy Strains begin, And thus the sainted Preacher cries “Pilgrim burthen’d with thy Sin, “Come the way to Zion’s Gate, “There, till Mercy lets thee in, “Knock and weep and watch and wait. “Knock!—He knows the Sinner’s Cry; “Weep!—He loves the Mourner’s Tears: “Watch!—for, saving Grace is nigh: “Wait,—till heavenly Light appears.” “Hark! it is the Bridegroom’s Voice: “Welcome, Pilgrim, to thy Rest; “Now within the Gate rejoice, “Safe and seal’d and bought and blest! “Safe—from all the Lures of Vice, “Seal’d—by Signs the Chosen know, “Bought by Love and Life the Price, “Blest—the mighty Debt to owe. “Holy Pilgrim! what for thee, “In a World like this remain? “From thy guarded Breast shall flee, “Fear and Shame, and Doubt and Pain. “Fear—the Hope of Heaven shall fly, “Shame—from Glory’s View retire, “Doubt—in certain Rapture die, “Pain—in endless Bliss expire. But though my Day of Grace was come, Yet still my Days of Grief I find; The former Clouds’ collected Gloom, Still sadden the reflecting Mind; The Soul to evil Things consign’d, Will of their Evil some retain; The Man will seem to Earth inclin’d, And will not look erect again. Thus, though elect, I feel it hard, To lose what I possess’d before, To be from all my Wealth debarr’d,— The brave Sir Eustace is no more; But old I wax and passing poor, Stern, rugged Men my Conduct view; They chide my Wish, they bar my Door, ’Tis hard—I weep—you see I do.— Must you, my Friends, no longer stay? Thus quickly all my Pleasures end? But I’ll remember, when I pray, My kind Physician and his Friend; And those sad Hours, you deign to spend With me, I shall requite them all; Sir Eustace for his Friends shall send, And thank their Love at Greyling Hall. VISITOR. The poor Sir Eustace!—Yet his Hope, Leads him to think of Joys again; And when his Earthly Visions droop, His Views of Heavenly Kind remain:— But whence that meek and humbled Strain, That Spirit wounded, lost, resign’d; Would not so proud a Soul disdain The Madness of the poorest Mind? PHYSICIAN. No! for the more he swell’d with Pride, The more he felt Misfortune’s Blow; Disgrace and Grief he could not hide, And Poverty had laid him low: Thus Shame and Sorrow working slow, At length this humble Spirit gave; Madness on these began to grow, And bound him to his Fiends a Slave. Though the wild Thoughts had touch’d his Brain, Then was he free:—So, forth he ran; To soothe or threat, alike were vain; He spake of Fiends; look’d wild and wan; Year after year, the hurried Man Obey’d those Fiends from place to place; To form a frenzied Child of Grace. For, as the Fury lost its Strength, The Mind repos’d; by slow Degrees, Came lingering Hope, and brought at length, To the tormented Spirit, Ease: This Slave of Sin, whom Fiends could seize, Felt or believ’d their Power had end;— “’Tis faith,” he cried, “my Bosom frees, “And now my Saviour is my Friend.” But ah! though Time can yield Relief, And soften Woes it cannot cure; Would we not suffer Pain and Grief, To have our Reason sound and sure? Then let us keep our Bosoms pure, Our Fancy’s favourite Flights suppress; Prepare the Body to endure, And bend the Mind to meet Distress; And then His Guardian Care implore, Whom DÆmons dread and Men adore. [Image unavailable: text decoration |