( 296 
ORIGINAL 
ARISBZODEMDS, 

A MONODRAMA, 

ARGUMENT. 
* The oracle had demanded a virgin vidtim of 
the blood-roya!, as the price: of Meffenia’s 
fafety. The lot had fallen on the daughter 
of Lyeargus, who fled with her. Stimu- 
Jated by ambition, Ariftedemus voluntarily 
offered his child: her betrothed hufband, to 
fave her life, afferted, that fhe was pregnant ; 
Ariftodemus immediately ftabbed her, and 
bade the prieft convince himfelf of the falfe- 
hood of this evafion. He obtained the crown ; 
but -the refleCtion, how he had obtained it, 
never could be obliterated ; and, at length, 
he flew himfelf upon his daughter’s tomb.” 

A SEPULCHRE, TIME—NIGHT. 
YET once again—again at this dread heur, 
When Nature flumbers in ferene repofe, 
And only murderers wake :—I come to paufe 
G’erthy cold grave, my child! Again I come, 
Worn out with anguifh, and the keeneft pangs 
That frenzying Memory knows. Ye dreadful 
fhades ! 
Ye fullen monumental groves of Death ! 
To you 1 come; efcap’d the wearying cares 
Of empire, and its loathfome pageantry— 
Sunk to the father, comes the wretched king. 
© thou cold clay—once moulded by the hand 
Of lavifh Nature to perfe€tion’s form— 
Gace animate with life, and youth, and love ; 
Once my Earine! Again I come 
To pour my forrows forth, and call to view 
What this curied hand deftroyed ; when, wild 
with rage, 
With favage fuperftition, and the luft _ . 
Of empire, I deftroy’d the faireft work 
Of bounteous heaven—blaited the opening bud 
Of beauty—caft away the ties of man— 
And murdered my dear child ! 
Oh, the was dear! 
I loved her—how I loved her witnefs heaven ! 
Witnefs the eternal grief that gnaws my heart ; 
Witnefs the days in fruitlefs efforts worn, 
To check the bitter thoughts that {till will rife ; 
Witnefs the nights, when Memory—fleeplefs 
fiend— 
Fevers my throbbing brain. Oh, fhe was dear ! 
For fhe was all a father’s heart could with: . 
Health bloffom’d in her cheek, and in her voice 
The foul of mufic breath’d; her fparkling eye 
Spoke each emotion of her gentle foul, 
Moft eloquent. Meffenia never faw 
A maid more lovely than Earinc— 
A happier father, than her barbarous fire. 
Now I can praife thy falfhood, when too late, 
Androcles !—I had fanétion’d all his hopes. 
He faw her eye beam love ; he Reard her yoice 
) | [ April, 
PO Er DR Xs 
Breathe tendernefs ; and Nature bade him urge 
The fond, falfe plea. Some fury, at that hour 
Poffefs’d me—in her breaft I plung’d the fword, 
Gor’d her white boiom, though her fearful 
eyes 
Look’d up to me for aid, though her. clafp’d 
hands 
Clung round my knees for fafety. I beheld 
Her livid cheek convulfe—I felt her grafp 
My knees, in life’s laft ftruggle—I beheld 
Her ftarting eye-balls;—calm, when thoufands 
round 
Rais’d one inftin&tive cry; when even the prieft 
Started, and fhriek’d with horror—I was calm— 
I only—I—her father ! 
But the hand 
Of Heaven lies heavy on the murderer now! ~ 
Earine ! Androcles! look on me! 
Behold me in the autumn of my days, 
When had I known to ieel.a father’s love, 
My daughter’s care had fmooth’d the path of, 
4 ages, ‘ 
Behold me, withering like the blafted oak, 
Struck by the wrath of Heaven. Nor ever 
night 
Defcends, but round my couch the furies throng, 
Dreadful they fmile, and in their red eyes glares 
Horrible expetation ! 
_ Lightings come— 
Rufh round my head—annthilate my woes ! 
Thou fearful fpe€tre, wherefore doft thou come ? 
Where dott thou beckon? Spirit of my child, 
Why bare that bleeding breaft? Earine, 
Spare me! Earine! my murder’d child, 
Spare thy poor father—tho’ he fpar’d not thee ! 
Thou pointe tothe fword—this impious fwor¢d— 
There is no hope—no mercy: I obey 
The dreadful call—accurft, abandon’d wretch, 
Down to perdition ! (He fabs himfelf.) 
Se 

a 
SONNET. 
HARRIOT, the {mile that plays upon thy 
cheek, 
Whene’er I greet thee; and the thrilling 
glance 
Of thofe bright orbs, that wakes me from 
the trance, 
. Where reafon ponders, to my faint heart fpeak 
Bove’s language : ardently could I rejoice 
In fuch fweet tokens; but I fear thine eye 
Has learnt to beam with Love’s hypocrily ; 
And Siren wiles dwell in thy tuneful veice + 
For now of ftudied eloquence thy tongue 
Yields to the tafk, which, to my lift’ning 
fenfe, 
Was wont of yore fuch magic charms difpenfe, 
That on thy lips my trembling fpirit hung, 
Waiting new life—-Oh! free me from my 
pain— 
Speak as e’erwhile that I may loye again. 
B. W. H. 
49 
