LADY MONTAGU.

EPISTLE.

ARTHUR GREY, THE FOOTMAN,

To Mrs. MAHONEY.

(After his condemnation to death for attempting to commit violence.)

READ, lovely nymph, and tremble not to read,
I have no more to wish, nor you to dread:
I ask not life, for life to me were vain
And death a refuge from severer pain.
My only hope in these last lines I try;
I would be pitied, and I then would die.
Long had I liv'd as sordid as my
fate,
Nor curs'd the destiny that made me wait
A servile slave: content with homely food,
The gross instinct of happiness pursu'd:
Youth gave me sleep at night, and warmth of blood,

LADY MONTAGU.

HÉROÏDE.

ARTHUR GREY, LAQUAIS,

A MADAME MAHONEY.

(Arthur écrit après sa condamnation à mort pour tentative de violence sur sa maîtresse.)

LISEZ, femme charmante, et lisez sans allarmes,
Que mes vœux désormais n'offensent plus vos charmes;
Je meurs; hélas! pour moi c'est cesser de souffrir;
Qui vous a pu déplaire, est heureux de mourir;
Chargé de votre haine, on doit haïr la vie;
Mais, si vous me plaignez, je meurs digne d'envie!

Né dans le dernier rang des plus grossiers humains,
Mes penchans étaient vils ainsi que mes destins;
Fait pour la servitude et servant sans murmure,'
Esclave, je suivais l'instinct de la nature;
Nul desir ne troublait mon paisible sommeil,

Ambition yet had never touch'd

my breast; My lordly master knew no sounder rest; With labour healthy, in obedience blest. But when I saw- oh! had I never seen

That wounding softness, that engaging mien!
The mist of wretched education flies;
Shame, fear, desire, despair, and love arise;
The new creation of those beauteous eyes.

But yet that love pursu'd no guilty aim;
Deep in my heart I hid the secret flame.
I never hop'd my fond desire to tell,
wishes were to serve you well.

And all

my

Heav'ns! how I flew, when wing'd by your command, And kiss'd the letters giv'n me by your hand! How pleas'd, how proud, how fond was I to wait, Present the sparkling wine, or change the plate! How, when you sung, my soul devour'd the sound, And ev'ry sense was in the rapture drown'd! Tho' bid to go, I quite forgot to move; -You knew not that stupidity was love!

Jamais l'ambition ne hâtait mon réveil.

Je vous vis... ah pourquoi vous ai-je jamais vue!
Je vous vis; tout changea. Cette grâce inconnue,
Cette douce fierté, ces attraits ravissans

Me donnèrent une âme, un esprit et des sens.
L'éclat inattendu d'une vive lumière

Dissipa le brouillard qui voilait ma paupière;
Je pris un nouvel être, et vis un nouveau jour.
La honte, le desir, le désespoir, l'amour,
De vos regards charmans créations soudaines,
Allumèrent ce sang engourdi dans mes veines.
Mais cet amour naissant, craintif, respectueux,
Dans mon cœur effrayé cachait encor mes feux.
Quand, tout haut par
par devoir et tout bas par tendresse,
Votre laquais pouvait vous nommer sa maîtresse,
Il était, condamnant un coupable desir,

Honteux de vous aimer, et fier de vous servir.

Dieu! comme je volais, fier de porter la lettre Qu'à ma main votre main avait daigné remettre! Je pressais sur mon cœur, je baisais mille fois Ces mots, ces mots tracés par de si jolis doigts! Avec quel tendre orgueil, quelle craintive ivresse, A table, je versais à ma noble maîtresse Ce vin, nectar heureux d'une divinité! Vous chantiez; par vos sons doucement agité L'air charmait mon oreille. O plaisirs! ô supplices! Tous mes sens se perdaient dans des flots de délices!

But oh! the torment not to be express'd. The grief, the rage, the hell that fir'd this breast, When my great rivals, in embroid'ry gay, Sate by your side, or led you from the play! I still contriv'd near as I could to stand, (The flambeau trembling in my shaking hand) I saw, or thought I saw, those fingers press'd, For thus their passion by my own I guess'd, And jealous fury all my soul possess'd. Like torrents, love and indignation meet, And madness would have thrown me at your

feet.

Turn, lovely nymph, (for so I would have said) Turn from those triflers who make love a trade; This is true passion in my eyes you see; They cannot, no-they cannot love like me. Frequent debauch has pall'd their sickly taste; Faint their desire, and in a moment past: They sigh not from the heart, but from the brain: Vapours of vanity, and strong champagne. Too dull to feel what forms like yours inspire, After long talking of their painted fire, To some lewd brothel they at night retire: There, pleas'd with fancied quality and charms, Enjoy your beauties in a strumpet's arms.