"From shadows thinner than the fleeting night / That floats along the vale, or haply seems / To wrap the mountain in its hazy vest, / (Which the first sun-beam dissipates in air.) / How dost thou conjure monsters which ne'er mov'd / But in the chaos of thy frenzied brain!"
— Pratt, Samuel Jackson [pseud. Courtney Melmoth] (1749-1814)
Work Title
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed for T. Becket
Date
1785
Metaphor
"From shadows thinner than the fleeting night / That floats along the vale, or haply seems / To wrap the mountain in its hazy vest, / (Which the first sun-beam dissipates in air.) / How dost thou conjure monsters which ne'er mov'd / But in the chaos of thy frenzied brain!"
Metaphor in Context
Cover'd with laurels, from the northern shore,
A blooming hero came, Arpasia's friend,
Arpasia's lover, whom the deathful din
Of constant action in the sanguine field,
And months of weary march, and years of toil,
Estrang'd not from the maid, whose soverign eye
Gilded his path to glory. Soon as peace
Sent her white doves to close the scene of blood
And bear the branching olive, swift the youth
Hasted to Albion's shore, and anxious sought
The hoarded treasure of his virgin heart.
He sought and found her on the fatal day,
She parted from her Theron; parted soon
To meet again. And tho' Arpasia ne'er
Had lov'd Sophronius (so the youth was call'd)
As women love, who give the maiden heart
In dear exchange of passion, glad she saw
A tender friend, escap'd from ruthless war
Return'd with honour to his native land,
The land he had defended: and her tears
Mix'd with her chaste embraces. Theron then
Quick hastening to Arpasia, instant saw
Rapture that weeps, and blushes that denote
The heart's strong triumph at a treasure sav'd
From the devouring war. Her heart he knew
Lodg'd in his own true bosom, yet he feared,
(Fear still is Love's attendant) that the joy
Thron'd in her eye, and from her rubied lip
Pouring the ardent welcome, might, perchance,
Nourish a dangerous softness, yet he prais'd
Her generous warmth and join'd the glowing zeal.
But when the youth, beneath the self-same roof,
With supplication strong to be receiv'd,
A chosen guest entreated, and his suit
Incautious friendship granted, who can draw
The pangs that seiz'd on Theron? Many a day
He fed in silence on his master griefs,
And bath'd his lonely pillow with his tears,
Far from Arpasia's mansion: Ev'ry friend,
Save she who cou'd administer relief,
Appear'd with comfort in their looks--while she,
(Cold as the marble that receives the drops
Of some pale mourner, at the urn which holds
The sainted ashes of the maid he lov'd)
Remain'd untouched, and while forlorn he lay
Death-sick beneath the chill of her neglect,
Sophronius was her theme. His health, his fame,
His rising fortune, and reward in arms,
Flam'd from her pen, which courted Theron's Muse,
To blazon forth his prowess in the war,
His fair deserts in peace. Yet still she talk'd
Of Friendship's early bonds, and nam'd not Love,
Nor seem'd to know the madness and despair
That rag'd in Theron's bosom, but led on
By Pity's gentle hand--for from the youth,
From change of climate, from fatigues of war,
And the heart's tender tumult, growing still,
That gently Pity claim'd, which the kind fair
(Without a thought that wrong'd the spotless faith,
Plighted to Theron) gave, with soul sincere;
Theron meanwhile believ'd it Love, fond Love enthron'd
Upon the mutual heart, and mad'ning thence,
Exclaim'd, infuriate--"Yes! they both shall fall!
"Since Pity thus can light her savage torch,
"And bind upon her altar, Love himself,
"Love in his turn, shall boast a sacrifice,
"And mark for death his victim!" Strait he rose,
'Twas the deep noon of night, he strode along,
A poignard snatch'd, and as he reach'd the dome
Of his Arpasia; soften'd at the view
From his torn heart these mournful accents broke:
"Oh had the chance been Theron's, had some maid,
"Bright as the morning star, her virgin heart
"Laid in the circle of these courted arms,
"And breath'd a passion warmer than e'er touch'd
"The breast of woman, tho' Compassion's sigh,
"The tenderest tear that ever Pity shed,
"The truest throb that ever Friendship knew
"Might plead his cause, nor these, nor death itself,
"Shou'd shake his plighted faith to false Arpasia,
"Shou'd shake his faith, ah no! by yonder heav'n
"Not the bright synod of the Gods shou'd draw
"His settled heart aside, tho' to the power
"Of heav'nly beauty, gold shou'd add a charm
"Richer than proud Golconda." Scarce these words
Burst from his heart, e'en from the opening door
Rush'd forth, with hurrying step and troubled air,
Some one infolded in a thick disguise,
That needed scarce the darkness of the night
To mock discovery. Theron, at the view
Sudden retir'd unseen, and torpid stood
A few sad moments; then, with frantic haste
Pursued--Ah, hell-born Jealousy!
Thou child of Love,
Performing deeds more terrible than hate!
From shadows thinner than the fleeting night
That floats along the vale, or haply seems
To wrap the mountain in its hazy vest,
(Which the first sun-beam dissipates in air.)
How dost thou conjure monsters which ne'er mov'd
But in the chaos of thy frenzied brain!
Thence hurling frighted Reason from her throne,
And with her all the charities that wait
To grace her virtuous Court! Theron soon
O'ertook whom he pursu'd, nor doubting ought,
(For Jealousy allows no pause of sense).
It was his happy rival, rais'd his hand,
In which the poignard trembled, and in rage,
To madness, struck the bosom of--Arpasia!
Yes! 'twas Arpasia's self.
The faithful mistress, from her lover's arm,
Thus met her fate utimely, for e'er word,
Cou'd utterance find, the dagger in her breast
Transfix'd she found--"And hast thou kill'd me, Love?"
--Was all she spoke, then died in his embrace.
Upon her Theron's brow pale Horror sate,
"Kill thee!" he cried--then deep into his heart
Plung'd the fell blade, with poor Arpasia's blood,
Distain'd and reeking--agoniz'd he fell
And kiss'd the wound--expiring in her arms.
A blooming hero came, Arpasia's friend,
Arpasia's lover, whom the deathful din
Of constant action in the sanguine field,
And months of weary march, and years of toil,
Estrang'd not from the maid, whose soverign eye
Gilded his path to glory. Soon as peace
Sent her white doves to close the scene of blood
And bear the branching olive, swift the youth
Hasted to Albion's shore, and anxious sought
The hoarded treasure of his virgin heart.
He sought and found her on the fatal day,
She parted from her Theron; parted soon
To meet again. And tho' Arpasia ne'er
Had lov'd Sophronius (so the youth was call'd)
As women love, who give the maiden heart
In dear exchange of passion, glad she saw
A tender friend, escap'd from ruthless war
Return'd with honour to his native land,
The land he had defended: and her tears
Mix'd with her chaste embraces. Theron then
Quick hastening to Arpasia, instant saw
Rapture that weeps, and blushes that denote
The heart's strong triumph at a treasure sav'd
From the devouring war. Her heart he knew
Lodg'd in his own true bosom, yet he feared,
(Fear still is Love's attendant) that the joy
Thron'd in her eye, and from her rubied lip
Pouring the ardent welcome, might, perchance,
Nourish a dangerous softness, yet he prais'd
Her generous warmth and join'd the glowing zeal.
But when the youth, beneath the self-same roof,
With supplication strong to be receiv'd,
A chosen guest entreated, and his suit
Incautious friendship granted, who can draw
The pangs that seiz'd on Theron? Many a day
He fed in silence on his master griefs,
And bath'd his lonely pillow with his tears,
Far from Arpasia's mansion: Ev'ry friend,
Save she who cou'd administer relief,
Appear'd with comfort in their looks--while she,
(Cold as the marble that receives the drops
Of some pale mourner, at the urn which holds
The sainted ashes of the maid he lov'd)
Remain'd untouched, and while forlorn he lay
Death-sick beneath the chill of her neglect,
Sophronius was her theme. His health, his fame,
His rising fortune, and reward in arms,
Flam'd from her pen, which courted Theron's Muse,
To blazon forth his prowess in the war,
His fair deserts in peace. Yet still she talk'd
Of Friendship's early bonds, and nam'd not Love,
Nor seem'd to know the madness and despair
That rag'd in Theron's bosom, but led on
By Pity's gentle hand--for from the youth,
From change of climate, from fatigues of war,
And the heart's tender tumult, growing still,
That gently Pity claim'd, which the kind fair
(Without a thought that wrong'd the spotless faith,
Plighted to Theron) gave, with soul sincere;
Theron meanwhile believ'd it Love, fond Love enthron'd
Upon the mutual heart, and mad'ning thence,
Exclaim'd, infuriate--"Yes! they both shall fall!
"Since Pity thus can light her savage torch,
"And bind upon her altar, Love himself,
"Love in his turn, shall boast a sacrifice,
"And mark for death his victim!" Strait he rose,
'Twas the deep noon of night, he strode along,
A poignard snatch'd, and as he reach'd the dome
Of his Arpasia; soften'd at the view
From his torn heart these mournful accents broke:
"Oh had the chance been Theron's, had some maid,
"Bright as the morning star, her virgin heart
"Laid in the circle of these courted arms,
"And breath'd a passion warmer than e'er touch'd
"The breast of woman, tho' Compassion's sigh,
"The tenderest tear that ever Pity shed,
"The truest throb that ever Friendship knew
"Might plead his cause, nor these, nor death itself,
"Shou'd shake his plighted faith to false Arpasia,
"Shou'd shake his faith, ah no! by yonder heav'n
"Not the bright synod of the Gods shou'd draw
"His settled heart aside, tho' to the power
"Of heav'nly beauty, gold shou'd add a charm
"Richer than proud Golconda." Scarce these words
Burst from his heart, e'en from the opening door
Rush'd forth, with hurrying step and troubled air,
Some one infolded in a thick disguise,
That needed scarce the darkness of the night
To mock discovery. Theron, at the view
Sudden retir'd unseen, and torpid stood
A few sad moments; then, with frantic haste
Pursued--Ah, hell-born Jealousy!
Thou child of Love,
Performing deeds more terrible than hate!
From shadows thinner than the fleeting night
That floats along the vale, or haply seems
To wrap the mountain in its hazy vest,
(Which the first sun-beam dissipates in air.)
How dost thou conjure monsters which ne'er mov'd
But in the chaos of thy frenzied brain!
Thence hurling frighted Reason from her throne,
And with her all the charities that wait
To grace her virtuous Court! Theron soon
O'ertook whom he pursu'd, nor doubting ought,
(For Jealousy allows no pause of sense).
It was his happy rival, rais'd his hand,
In which the poignard trembled, and in rage,
To madness, struck the bosom of--Arpasia!
Yes! 'twas Arpasia's self.
The faithful mistress, from her lover's arm,
Thus met her fate utimely, for e'er word,
Cou'd utterance find, the dagger in her breast
Transfix'd she found--"And hast thou kill'd me, Love?"
--Was all she spoke, then died in his embrace.
Upon her Theron's brow pale Horror sate,
"Kill thee!" he cried--then deep into his heart
Plung'd the fell blade, with poor Arpasia's blood,
Distain'd and reeking--agoniz'd he fell
And kiss'd the wound--expiring in her arms.
Provenance
HDIS (Poetry)
Citation
Only 1 entry in ECCO and ESTC (1785).
Samuel Jackson Pratt, Miscellanies, By Mr. Pratt, 4 vols. (London: printed for T. Becket, 1785). <Link to ECCO>
Samuel Jackson Pratt, Miscellanies, By Mr. Pratt, 4 vols. (London: printed for T. Becket, 1785). <Link to ECCO>
Date of Entry
07/27/2004
