The Tale of Eldred

WELL-nigh consum'd with malady and years,
Now totters ELDRED on life's latest stage,
Down his pale cheek distill incessant tears,
And want and sorrow wear his failing age.

Deep in its hollow cell now fades the eye,
Which once on life's gay prospect brightly shone,
In his shrunk veins the loit'ring pulses die,
Their active course impair'd, their vigour flown.

Where's now the glowing heart that wont to beat
At rapture's call, and warm th' expanding breast?
Chill is the glowing heart, the vital heat;
And life's repairing sources near suppress'd.

Who, but would melt, as they behold those hairs,
Which erst with burnish'd auburn wont to glow,
Now chang'd by grief and soul-corroding cares,
All whiten'd o'er like winter's drizzled snow?

A beauteous consort bless'd his noon of life,
Who in that noon of life was snatch'd away,
When most he knew to prize, he lost, the wife,
To their first pledge of love an early prey.

Yet Heav'n ordain'd the infant pledge to live—
O! what a soothing to a father's breast!
His loss to lighten, and his woe relieve,
Were filial duty on his soul impress'd!

But ELDRED's shameless son, in early youth,
Gave tokens of a thwart, disnatur'd mind,
To froward malice, sullenness, untruth,
And ev'ry opposite to good inclin'd.

In manhood's prime, now flies he far astray,
From filial duty, gratitude, and love,
Leaves a sick sire to pain and want a prey,
In lawless pleasures impious paths to rove.

Wealth, jewels, leases, each paternal right,
His plund'ring hand from his sad father drain'd,
The mansion (once so goodly to the sight)
Disfurnish'd, unrepair'd, alone remains.

Bedrid, and restless, hark! the parent cries;
From morn to eve makes unavailing moan;
Round the bare chamber casts his hopeless eyes,
Where cold winds pierce, and echo groan for groan.

Ah! miserable man, and are there yet
Severer ills in hard Affliction's store?
Can a son's hand yet greater crimes commit,
Can he inflict, and must thou suffer more?

Yes, miserable man, there yet remain
Severer ills in hard Affliction's store;
From a son's hand thou yet must more sustain;
He can inflict, and thou must suffer more.

For now returning, with distemper'd soul,
From loose associates of his luxury,
Intoxicated with the madd'ning bowl,
And beggar'd by the false bewitching dye,

With rage inflam'd, he seeks his father's bed,
That bed, which he himself had robb'd of rest,
There, with wild looks, that scatter'd horrid dread,
He thus unfolds his unrelenting breast.

"My gold is gone—Hast thou no more, old sire?
"Hast thou no precious gems, no hidden store?
"Be quick to gratify my keen desire."
The parent sighs, "My son, I have no more.

"Yet cast not such unduteous looks on me,
"Let not displeasure on a father frown,
"While I had wealth, I gave that wealth to thee;
"All my possessions were they not thine own?

"In times less wretched than the present hour,
"Did not a sparing meal my board supply?
"While thou in wanton riot didst devour
"My lavish'd gold in wasteful luxury?

"In all the sickness, all the griefs I bore,
"When almost fainting in the arms of death,
"Thou ne'er wast nigh, my spirits to restore,
"Or raise my lab'ring breast, when scant of breath.

"Leave, leave me now, my son, to sigh my last;
"To dye alone—I perish now thro' want;
"No more thy prodigality can waste,
"Thou hast no more to seek, nor I to grant.'

"Yes, thou hast more; this mansion yet is left,
"This mansion, which by heritage is mine."
"Let me not yet, my son, of this be 'reft,
"Some few short strugglings more, and this is thine.

"While painful life remains, O! do not tear
"This only cov'ring from my wretched head;
"No, no, my son; I must, will perish here;
"Then patient wait, till thou shalt see me dead.

"The awful moments may yet remain,
"I would employ in peace and pious pray'r;
"That my sad soul some mercy may obtain,
"For, O! my son, guilt, guilt sits heavy there.

"Then from thy brow those frowns and scoulings chase,
"And leave me not with anger in thine eye;
"With one kind glance thank me for what I was,
"So may thy father bless thee ere he die."

"Peace, dotard, peace! rejoins th' unnat'ral son,
"Thy counsel I despise, thy age I scorn;
"Too long old ELDRED's wretched date hath run,
"And wretched I, because of ELDRED born!"

This said, the fiend, with fury unrestrain'd,
Twists round his grasp his father's silver hairs,
And drags him, pleading with out stretched hand,
Far as the passage op'ning to the stairs.

When thus the sire's heart-rending screams implore,
"In pity cease; enough thy hand has done;
"Drag not thy father past this guilty floor,
"Thus far, and but thus far I dragg'd my own."

Th' astonish'd wretch foregoes his impious hold,
The storm of rage is in an instant still;
With cruelty and wine no longer bold,
Quick-darting horrors all his senses chill.

While thus the sire, with falt'ring voice pursues—
"Behold, my son, thy father stretch'd in dust;
"Thus Vengeance claims from me its righteous dues,
"I own, I own my punishment is just.

"Thus did I on my father's sorrows scoul,
"Thus to the ground his hallow'd person cast:
"But Heav'n so deal with my distracted soul,
"As here I pardon thee!" He sigh'd his last.

By reason wak'd, the culprit lives to woe;
The mansion now his sick'ning eyes detest,
O'er his foul hands unceasing torrents flow,
And unremitting tortures gnaw his breast.