The Fatal Revenge; Or, The Family of Montorio by Charles Maturin

Author:Charles Maturin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: West Margin Press

Of the next, whatever the execution might be, the subject was perhaps the most interesting that could occur in poetry: it purported to represent a mind deeply sunk in passion, yet alive to a feeling the most painful and hostile to passion that can exist; a conviction of the unworthiness of its object. The struggles of reluctant conviction, and the anguish of involuntary fondness, were portrayed as in a narrative; but Ippolito easily discovered the sentiments and situation of the unfortunate nun.

_________He died—living he died.

Living, but dead to her, whose ceaseless toil

To win him from the weary paths of sin,

Long with vain essay strove; but when she found

That on a mind so weak, no lofty precept

To virtue’s lore, wrought with incitement high,

That on a soil so light, instruction’s seed

Fell fruitless; like the exiled Hagar of yore,

(Who wandering in the wilds of Beer-Sheba,

Saw the last morsel of her pittance spent,

Saw its last drop scarce wet her babe’s parched lip,

And seeing, said, with hopeless anguish bowed—

Let me not see him die!—and went far off

And wept): so went she to a spot remote,

And wept—ceaseless and silent wept; no gleam

Of tremulous light played on her evening hour,

No sheeny phantoms of the tints of morn

Wove to her eye the painted visions of joy,

Or struck their airy harps far heard. Her life

Was lone, her purpose strange, but never brake.

She reared an antic structure, wild and simple,

Like some lone eremite’s tomb, and called it his.

She watched beside his tomb, in patience, pale,

With sunk and tearless eye, and lips that moved

In inward prayer for him, whom she deemed dead

To all worth living for. She hung that tomb

With garlands, fancy-wrought, and dim of hue;

They were as wild as mountain-spirits’ song,

They mocked all rule, and scorned all art—and yet

No child of feeling true, might see that wreath,

Nor wake their waning colours with a tear.

Far other employ she hoped for them—with these

She would have strewn his path, or wreathed his brow,

Or decked the polished hours of virtuous life.

But little did he reck of virtuous life,

Or aught but the loose flow of dance, and song,

And roar of midnight revel—sad she heard,

And still she sat in pale and pined constancy;

Yet not without impulse of natural sorrow,

(Strong throes of anguish, cleaving still to life),

She thought on her last hopes, her withered heart,

Her youth departed, and her mind decayed.

Yet still she loved—yea, still loved hopeless on.

Infatuate passion desperate, still lit

Her hollow eye, still warmed her fevered lip—

The memory of her first love, like rich music

Sung in her witched ear. She was condemned

T’ outlive the object, but the passion—never

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