The Exile. Poem by Charlotte Dacre

SWEEP on, ye winds—congenial billows roar,
As, lost, I wander on your dubious shore;
In sad review each shudd'ring vision see
Pass slow along, and turn their looks on me;
See pale Experience with her sadden'd eye
Gaze on the shades, and hear her hollow sigh;
Bless the relentless gloom that weighs the air,
And hail it, fit associate of Despair.

Dark as my fate the prospect round me low'rs,
As, rob'd in sadness, pass my pensive hours.
The past, a dream—the future, wrapt in shade,
Vainly to pierce my soul has oft essay'd;
To dim perspective hast'ning shadows fly,
And veil'd in mist, my straining gaze defy,
Or, like mysterious pageants, mock the eye
In wild conjecture sinks my boding heart,
For fate in ambush still suspends her dart.

The day's drear aspect, when I first drew breath,
Foretold a blight to shrink my hopes with death;
Dark rose the morn, from Heaven's awful gate
Wept the full clouds, as though they mourn'd my fate;
Nor was the eve in one bright ray attir'd,
But chill and sad the grievous day retir'd—
Prophetic day! too well didst thou express
That woe unvarying must my life oppress!
The morn has pass'd; the day still wastes in gloom,
Till deep'ning comes the darkness of the tomb.

O welcome, tomb! I fondly look to thee,
As wearied mariners a port from sea;
Thou bid'st alone the shackled wretch be free.
Despair flies vanquish'd from the gates of death,
And cedes his empire with the parting breath.
There can no tyrant free-born minds enslave,
For human pow'r is pow'rless o'er the grave.

Ah! what avails it then the chance that sped?
Whether 'twas virtue, hope, or fancy led
The dazz'ling visions of the wand'rer's head:
Whether the dupe of all, or slave of love,
Or wild enthusiast, only skill'd to rove:
Whether the child of error or of fate,
Ah! what avails the folly of debate?

And now, great God! to thee forlorn I pray—
Teach me to struggle through my arduous day!
Let me not sink ignobly 'neath the scorn
Of narrow minds, or wretches vulgar born,
But from their pity doubly spare my mind—
Cheap, humbling pity of the mock-refin'd!
Let me from added evil still arise,
Like the proud flame aspiring to the skies,
Or freedom, struggling with an host of foes,
That more elastic from oppression grows!
Ah! let me not, whatever be my doom,
Involve another in its fatal gloom!
Let none accuse me with the harrowing name
Of base destroyer of their peace or fame;
In secret let my anguish'd bosom swell,
In secret all my faults and sorrows dwell!

Hope flies alarm'd from sorrows such as mine,
And back recoils the powerless hand of Time:
'Tis Death alone, stalking with pride elate,
The king of time, the conqueror of fate,
Smiles on me now, while struggling through the gloom,
And marks me, in proud triumph, for the tomb.

Then soon farewell for ever, friend or foe!
Indifferent to love or hate I go.
Farewell, oh, man! destroyer of my fame!
Forgot for ever be my injur'd name!
'Tis your unkindness digs my early grave,
Prone to destroy, with every power to save.
No more my just, though slighted claims appear;
Hush then your conscience, 'tis her voice you hear.
Those many wrongs that owe to you their birth,
Like restless spirits, ever scare your mirth;
Still, while you sleep, in dreams your mind shall roll,
And cries for vengeance dimly wake your soul;
Thine offspring hear, unown'd upon thee call—
In sad disgrace they share their mother's fall;
Unpitied, roaming in the world, they find
No chance of life but preying on mankind;

Till, desperately just, their country's laws
Doom an ignoble death, nor scan the cause;
Justice denies what Mercy would require,
And for a nation's good, see, they expire!

Yes, thou fond lover of thy vices, see
Their end who liv'd and are destroy'd by thee!
(Tormenting thought, destroy'd by thee to say!)
Ah! tempt no more the blood-besprinkled way;
Reform, and swift thy ruthless crimes deplore,
For in the grave repentance is no more.

Now summer fades upon the sterner year,
That conqu'ring comes with aspect sad and drear.
Fly not, sweet season! yet a little stay,
And gild with genial beams my lonely day.
'Tis such as I should mark with sadden'd eye,
In sad progression all thy beauties die;
Should mark the fading of thy smile serene,
And linger hopeless o'er thy with'ring green.
Oh! where, (for this enervates me with dread,)
Oh! where in winter shall I rest my head?
No home, no shelter in the expanse drear,
No friend, no family have I to cheer.

A niggard sum, in trembling anguish told,
Speaks, to a day, how long my life I hold.
When this is gone—ah! what the rate decreed—
Famine must waste, or suicide bid me bleed.

Yet ere that day shall not sweet hope be mine?
Outstep destruction with a speed divine?
Shall I not yet reject the fatal steel,
And gratitude for godlike mercy feel?
No, no—'tis fix'd—vain tears, no longer flow,
For happiness I ne'er shall meet below.

Oh! thou, devoid of honour! but for thee,
I still would breathe the life of nature, free—
Still tranquil, for still pure, my hours had been,
Not faded in their earliest transient green.
So the young rose, of gentle summer born,
I've seen expanding to the orient morn;
Then Zephyr courts it; but not long its term
Of splendour, hasten'd by the cank'ring worm.
Like me it falls, ere half its little day,
And leaves at large the ravager to prey.