THE FRATERNAL DUEL. (Mary) Matilda Betham Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T143264 Betham, Mary Matilda, 1776-1852. Elegies and Other Small Poems, by Matilda Betham. Ipswich Printed by W. Burrell, and sold by Longman, Paternoster-Row, and Jermyn and Forster, Ipswich 1797 pp. [14]-21.

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Alas ! no more that joyous morn appears That led the tranquil hours of spotless fame ; For I have steep'd a father's couch in tears , SHENSTONE THE FRATERNAL DUEL . ' OH ! hide me from the sun ! I loath the sight ! I cannot bear his bright , obtrusive ray : Nought is so dreadful to my gloom as light ! Nothing so dismal as the blaze of day ! No more may I its sparkling glories view ! No more its piercing lustre meet my eye ! On night's black wings my only comfort flew ; At breath of morn I sicken and I die . Where can I fly ? In what sequester'd clime Does darkness ever hold her ebon reign ? Where woeful dirges measure out the time , And endless echoes breathe the sullen strain . Where dreary mountains rear their low'ring heads , To pierce the heavy and umbrageous clouds ; And where the cavern dewy moisture sheds , And night's thick veil the guilty mourner shrouds . There , lost in horrors , I might vent my sighs ; To open misery myself resign ; Might snatch each torturing vision ere it flies , And feast on prospects desolate as mine . Oh ! let me thither quickly take my flight , And chuse a favourite and a final seat , In scenes which would each gentler mind affright , But for my guilt affords a fit retreat . There , where no ray , no gleam of light could come , There , and there only , could I find relief ; There might I ruminate on Edward's doom , And lose myself in luxury of grief . And , as it is , though joys around me shine , Though pleasure here erects her dazzling brow , Wrapt in despondence , will I droop and pine , And tears of anguish shall for ever flow . Oh Edward ! could'st thou see this alter'd frame , Which youthful graces lately did adorn ! Could'st thou behold , and think me still the same , Thy once gay friend , thus hapless and forlorn ? The cheek , so late by ruddy health embrown'd , Now pale and faded with incessant tears ; The eye , which once elate , disdain'd the ground , Now sunk and languid in its orb appears . Oh ! never , never will I cease to grieve ! And sure repentance pardon may obtain ! Can woe unfeign'd incite heav'n to relieve A wretch opprest with agonizing pain ? Ah no ! my hands are stain'd with brother's blood ! A father's curses load my sinking head ! I wish to die , but dare not pass the flood , For there , as well as here , my hopes are fled . Sleep , which was meant to chase away the thought , To lull the sound of dissonant despair , Appears to me with added terrors fraught , And my torn heart can find no refuge there . If , for a moment , I its fetters wear , And its soft pressure these pale eyes controul , I injur'd Emma's just reproaches hear , Or Edward's form appals my shrinking soul . When in those transitory sleeps I lie , I oft his beauteous , bleeding form review ; A mild , benignant lustre lights his eye , As come to bid a friend a last adieu . I start , I shudder at his tuneful voice , When it , in soothing whispers , meets my ear ; That sound , which oft has made my heart rejoice , I now all-trembling and affrighted hear . Was it thy fault , dear , much-lamented youth If lovely Emma did thy suit prefer ? She saw thee form'd of tenderness and truth , And kings might glory to be lov'd by her . Thy native sweetness won her artless heart ; And well our different characters she knew ; Whilst thy mild looks did happiness impart , She saw the murderer in each glance I threw . Yet for this , meanly , did I thee upbraid , And basely urg'd an elder brother's right ; Then , calling impious passion to my aid , Forc'd thee , unwilling , to the fatal fight . Oh ! ne'er shall I forget the dreadful hour , I sheath'd my weapon in thy noble breast Thy dying hand clasp'd mine , with feeble pow'r , And to thy mangled bosom fondly prest . Whilst o'er thee , I , in speechless anguish hung , Thou saw'st the wild distraction of my eye ; And , though the chills of death restrain'd thy tongue , Thy bosom heav'd a sympathetic sigh . With cruel tenderness my friends cotriv'd , To bear me from the drear , polluted shore ; Of every joy , of peace itself depriv'd , Which this despairing breast shall know no more . Since this what frenzy has inspir'd my mind ! My tortur'd mem'ry cannot it retrace ; No relique now of former days I find , But horrors , which e'en madness can't efface . My dearest brother , and my tenderest friend , O come , and save me from this dark abyss ! Draw hence me darts which my rack'd bosom rend ! And bear me with you to the realms of bliss ! Ah ! whence that pang which smote my shuddering heart ? Where now , for refuge , can lost Anselm fly ? 'Tis Death ! I know him by his crimson dart ! And , am I fit ? Oh heav'ns ! I cannot die ! My spirit is not form'd for rapid flight ; It cannot cut the vast expanse of air , No , never can it reach the realms of light , For sin , a weight immoveable , lies there ! ' Thus wretched Anselm rav'd : unhappy youth ! Though passion hurried thee so far astray , Thy infant soul ador'd the God of Truth , And virtue ushur'd in thy vernal day . Oh ! had he learn'd his passions to restrain , And let cool reason in his breast preside , His op'ning wisdom had not bloom'd in vain , Nor had he , ere the prime of manhood , died . Yet , if remorse could expiate his guilt , If the worst sufferings could the crime erase , If tears could wash away the blood he spilt , Then Anselm's penitence obtain'd him grace . August 20 , 1794.