Ballads | Page 8

to her, with soften'd air,
His self-correcting thought.
"True prophetess! I feel thee now;
So God my crimes forgive,
As I
with thee true concord vow:
In comfort may'st thou live."
"Behold upon this charter'd scroll,
A pictur'd cottage stand,
I give it
thee, with all my soul,
And its adjacent land."
"The only rent I will assume,
Be this. At close of day,
Sit thou, with
pity, on my tomb,
And for my spirit pray!"
"That tomb be rais'd by sculpture's aid,
To warn men from my guilt;

My horse's head beside me laid,
Whose blood I basely spilt!"
He spoke, he died, the tomb was made,
His statue look'd to Heaven!

And daily then the widow pray'd,
His crimes might be forgiven!

THE LION.
BALLAD THE NINTH.
Lovely woman! how brave is thy soul,
When duty and love are
combin'd!
Then danger in vain would controul
Thy tender, yet
resolute mind.
Boulla thus in an African glade,
In her season of beauty and youth,

In the deadliest danger display'd
All the quick-sighted courage of
truth.
Tho' the wife of a peasant, yet none
Her grandeur of heart rose above;

And her husband was nature's true son
In simplicity, labour, and
love.

'Twas his task, and he manag'd it well,
The herd of his master to
guide,
Where a marshy and desolate dell
Daily drink to the cattle
supplied.
In this toil a dear playfellow shar'd,
A little, brave, sensible boy!

Who nobly for manhood prepar'd,
Made every kind office his joy.
One day as the dell they drew near,
They perceiv'd all the cattle
around
Starting wild, in tumultuous fear,
As if thunder had shaken
the ground.
The peasant, in wonder and awe,
Keenly search'd for the cause of
their fright;
Very soon it's just motive he saw,
And he shudder'd
himself at the sight;
For couch'd in the midst of the glade
An enormous fierce Lion he
view'd;
His eye-balls shot flame thro' the shade,
And with gore his
vast jaw was imbru'd.
"Fly boy to thy mother, be sure!
Dear child do not tremble for me!
I
fear not if thou art secure;
I shall 'scape in the limbs of a tree."
He spoke, flying light as the breeze,
His cattle were scatter'd before,

Them he thought that the Lion would seize,
And for human food
hunger no more.
But athirst for the blood of a man,
All the herd he in fury disdain'd;

And leapt at the bough, as he ran,
Which the peasant had rapidly
gain'd.
He leapt, but he fail'd of his prey;
For the peasant was happily higher:

Beneath him, indignant, he lay,
And watch'd him with vigilant ire.
The boy had his father obey'd,
And ran for his rustic abode;
And oft
turning, that father survey'd,
And hardly remember'd his road.

But when, with a burst of delight.
His father he saw in a tree,
He
lost all his sense of affright,
And his terror was turn'd into glee.
Then quick to his mother he sped,
And quickly his story he told:
As
she heard it, she shudder'd with dread;
But love made her suddenly
bold.
She remember'd, that oft to her boy
She a lesson of archery gave:

Then the bow she resolv'd to employ,
And by courage his father to
save.
Soon forth from a curious old chest
A bundle of arrows she drew;

The gift of a warrior, their guest,
And ting'd with a poisonous glue!
With a bow, that the chief us'd alone,
Which her arm could not easily
draw:
This bow she preferr'd to her own,
In these moments of hope
and of awe.
And now they both haste from their cot,
The stripling his mother
before,
And keenly he shew'd her the spot,
As the bow he
exultingly bore.
More cautious as now they advance,
The boy, to his eager desire,

Espied, with a love-guided glance,
The half-shrouded head of his sire.
He leapt, with a rapturous joy;
But, marking the Lion below,
In
silence the spirited boy
Made ready the powerful bow.
From his mother an arrow he caught,
In hope's youthful extacy hot;

And softly said, quick as his thought,
"O grant to my hand the first
shot."
His entreaty she could not refuse,
Yet hardly had time to consent;

Impatient his aim not to lose,
The stripling the bow would have bent.
He labour'd to bend it in vain;
It surpass'd all the strength of his years:


The brave boy full of anguish and pain,
Let it fall to the ground
with his tears.
His father beheld him with grief,
Seeing both, he yet more and more
grieves,
While his eyes, as in search of relief,
Look forth from his
refuge of leaves.
But Boulla, who caught his keen eye,
Now grasp'd her adventurous
bow,
And, with prayers addrest to the sky,
She aim'd at the Lion
below.
Good angels! her arrow direct!
On its flight these dear beings depend,

Whose kindness, by danger uncheck'd,
Has deserv'd to find Heaven
their friend.
See the beast! Lo! his eye-balls yet burn,
On his prey he still gloats,
with a yawn,
Yet the woman he does not discern;
And her bow is
undauntedly drawn.
O love! it is thine to impart
Such force, as none else can bestow--

She has shot with the strength of her heart,
She has pierced her
infuriate foe.
While his jaws were enormously