Written by
Anne Kingsmill Finch |
Enter, as in the Temple of Jerusalem,
ATHALIA, MATHAN, ABNER
[Mathan]
WHY, to our Wonder, in this Place is seen,
Thus discompos'd, and alter'd, Juda's Queen?
May we demand, what Terrors seize your Breast,
Or, why your Steps are to this House addrest,
Where your unguarded Person stands expos'd
To secret Foes, within its Walls inclos'd?
Can it be thought that you remit that Hate?
[Athalia]
No more! but Both observe what I relate:
Not, that I mean (recalling Times of Blood)
To make you Judges of the Paths I trod,
When to the empty'd Throne I boldly rose,
Treating all Intercepters as my Foes.
'Twas Heav'ns Decree, that I should thus succeed,
Whose following Favour justifies the Deed,
Extending my unlimited Command
From Sea to Sea o'er the obedient Land:
Whilst your Jerusalem all Peace enjoys,
Nor now the' encroaching Philistine destroys,
Nor wandring Arab his Pavilion spreads,
Near Jordan's Banks, nor wastes his flow'ry Meads.
The great Assyrian, Terror of your Kings,
Who bought his Friendship with their holiest Things,
Yields that a Sister, of his pow'rful Race,
Should sway these Realms, and dignify the Place.
Nor need we add the late insulting Foe,
The furious Jehu does this Sceptre know,
And sinks beneath the Load of conscious Fears,
When in Samaria he my Actions hears.
Distrest by Foes, which I've against him rais'd,
He sees me unmolested, fix'd, and pleas'd;
At least, till now thus glorious was my State;
But something's threatned from relaxing Fate,
And the last Night, which should have brought me Rest,
Has all these great Ideas dispossest.
A Dream, a Vision, an apparent View
Of what, methinks, does still my Steps pursue,
Hangs on my pensive Heart, and bears it down
More than the weight of an objected Crown,
My Mother (be the Name with Rev'rence spoke!)
Ere chearful Day thro' horrid Shades had broke,
Approach'd my Bed, magnificent her Dress,
Her Shape, her Air did Jesabel confess:
Nor seem'd her Face to have refus'd that Art,
Which, in despight of Age, does Youth impart,
And which she practis'd, scorning to decay,
Or to be vanquish'd ev'n in Nature's way.
Thus all array'd, in such defying Pride
As when th' injurious Conqu'ror she descry'd,
And did in height of Pow'r for ill-got Pow'r deride.
To me she spake, these Accents to me came:
"Thou worthy Daughter of my soaring Fame,
"Tho' with a more transcendent Spirit fill'd,
"Tho' struggling Pow'rs attempt thy Life to shield,
"The Hebrew's God (Oh, tremble at the sound!)
"Shall Thee and Them, and all their Rights confound.
A pitying Groan concludes, no Word of Aid.
My Arms I thought to throw about the Shade
Of that lov'd Parent, but my troubled Sight
No more directed them to aim aright,
Nor ought presented, but a heap of Bones,
For which fierce Dogs contended on the Stones,
With Flakes of mangled Flesh, that quiv'ring still
Proclaim'd the Freshness of the suffer'd Ill;
Distain'd with Blood the Pavement, and the Wall,
Appear'd as in that memorable Fall–
[Abner]
Oh! just avenging Heaven!– [aside.
[Mathan]
Sure, Dreams like these are for Prevention given.
|
Written by
Paul Laurence Dunbar |
I 've journeyed 'roun' consid'able, a-seein' men an' things,
An' I 've learned a little of the sense that meetin' people brings;
But in spite of all my travelling an' of all I think I know,
I 've got one notion in my head, that I can't git to go;
An' it is that the folks I meet in any other spot
Ain't half so good as them I knowed back home in Possum Trot.
I know you 've never heerd the name, it ain't a famous place,
An' I reckon ef you 'd search the map you could n't find a trace
Of any sich locality as this I 've named to you;
But never mind, I know the place, an' I love it dearly too.
It don't make no pretensions to bein' great or fine,
The circuses don't come that way, they ain't no railroad line.
It ain't no great big city, where the schemers plan an' plot,
But jest a little settlement, this place called Possum Trot.
But don't you think the folks that lived in that outlandish place
Were ignorant of all the things that go for sense or grace.
Why, there was Hannah Dyer, you may search this teemin' earth
An' never find a sweeter girl, er one o' greater worth;
An' Uncle Abner Williams, a-leanin' on his staff,
It seems like I kin hear him talk, an' hear his hearty laugh.
His heart was big an' cheery as a sunny acre lot,
Why, that's the kind o' folks we had down there at Possum Trot.
Good times? Well, now, to suit my taste,—an' I 'm some hard to suit,—
There ain't been no sich pleasure sence, an' won't be none to boot,
With huskin' bees in Harvest time, an' dances later on,
An' singin' school, an taffy pulls, an' fun from night till dawn.
Revivals come in winter time, baptizin's in the spring,
You 'd ought to seen those people shout, an' heerd 'em pray an' sing;[Pg 148]
You 'd ought to 've heard ole Parson Brown a-throwin' gospel shot
Among the saints an' sinners in the days of Possum Trot.
We live up in the city now, my wife was bound to come;
I hear aroun' me day by day the endless stir an' hum.
I reckon that it done me good, an' yet it done me harm,
That oil was found so plentiful down there on my ole farm.
We 've got a new-styled preacher, our church is new-styled too,
An' I 've come down from what I knowed to rent a cushioned pew.
But often when I 'm settin' there, it's foolish, like as not,
To think of them ol' benches in the church at Possum Trot.
I know that I 'm ungrateful, an' sich thoughts must be a sin,
But I find myself a wishin' that the times was back agin.
With the huskin's an' the frolics, an' the joys' I used to know,
When I lived at the settlement, a dozen years ago.
I don't feel this way often, I 'm scarcely ever glum,
For life has taught me how to take her chances as they come.
But now an' then my mind goes back to that ol' buryin' plot,
That holds the dust of some I loved, down there at Possum Trot.
|