[newspaper clipping]
THE BANBURY GUARDIAN, THURSDA
[first column]
LOVE S REVENGE
BY THOMAS BUTLER GUNN.
The elements of this story, says Leigh Hunt, are to
be found in the old book called Albion s England, written
by a homely but not mean poet, Warner. Hunt has him-
self told it, under the title of The Fair Revenge, in the
Indicator for January 12, 1820. The following version
is an attempt to turn his charming prose-poetry into blank
verse:
This an old story of a woman s love
And man s ungratefulness, and how, too late,
Unprized affection brought its punishment
To a hard, selfish heart. An Argive King
Dying without heirs male, bequeathed the throne
Unto his only daughter, Daphles, who
Was young and fair and by the people loved,
So they obeyed her gladly. But one lord,
A warlike chief who dwelt on the frontier,
Scorning to how his masculine, proud head
In homage to a woman, took up arms
In hot and fierce rebellion. Doracles
Was little known in Argos, save as one
Who had fought bravely gainst invading foes,
But cared not for the old King s thanks, nor e er
Had deigned to claim them : hardly could he brook
Any superior. Now he came, indeed,
To uncrown Daphles, if his martial skill
And fiery courage, captioning a host
Of traitor-swordsmen, might prevail against
The innocent young queen. And there were those
Who augured ill for her, but neither these,
Nor the ambitious Doracles divined
The force there is in love; the gentle girl
Being as good as she was beautiful,
Had won the hearts of all her people, while
Even those nobles whose fidelity
Was flawed with baser metal, hoped to share
Her throne or reign as favourite minister.
Or, at the worst, preferred her mild control
To the harsh sway of Doracles. So when
The day of battle came and the young queen
Rode forth on horseback, with her hair blown loose
Beneath its diadem, her lovely face
Paler than usual and a yearning look,
Half confident in the great love of those
Who were to fight for her, half-pitiful
For what they must endure; and in her hand
An unaccustomed spear; then there went up
A shout so stern and joyous that it might
Have daunted braver hearts than ever yet
Beat in a traitor s bosom with the thought
Of sure defeat.
And so, indeed it proved:
For when the armies joined in hostile shock,
The fight was short and bloody. Doracles
Put forth his utmost skill in leadership
And his men lacked not courage, but in vain;
For when the troops of Daphles charged, they struck
With all their hearts; attacked, they stood as fast
As walls of iron: the foe s task was like
Hammering on men of brass or impaling
Their fated horses upon cruel spears
Morticed in stone; hence speedy victory
Fell to the queen, who, on a neighbouring hill
Awaited the event; and now rode down,
Crowned with laurel, with her generals,
To see her prisoners. Her ashen face
Was royal with composed compassion while
The meaner rebels passed, some gashed with wounds,
And shaking back their bloody, blinding locks,
For want of hands unpinioned; but when he,
The proud, the handsome Doracles appeared,
Whom she now saw for the first time, as he,
Catching the glance of his fair conqueror,
Blushed burning red and then strode on amain,
As haughtily as if the chaios he wore
Were an indifferent ornament; why then
The tell-tale crimson mounted to her cheeks
Like signal answering signal. And he went
A victor to his dungeon, after all,
For Daphles loved him.
Two nights after, she,
Having possessed her lords of what she meant,
Released him with her hands. Full many steps
Of the steep dungeon-stairs she faltered down
In a sweet virgin tremor: when she reached
The grim, clamped iron door, she shed a flood
Of soft but wilful and refreshing tears,
Humbling herself for the approaching task.
Then entering, she blushed deeply and anon,
Turning as pale, stood silent for a space
And motionless. At length she spoke and said:
Thy queen, O Doracles, has come to show
She can forgive a valiant soldier, one
Who did not know her. Ere he was aware
They loosed his bonds. He seemed surprised but calm,
Nor over-grateful. Name, O Queen, he said,
The terms whereon I am enlarged, and they
Shall be obeyed. Poor Daphles moved her lips,
Which gave no sound. Then, with a piteous smile,
She shook her head and waved her hand, as if
Absolving him from all conditions. And
He turned to go, not caring, when she fell,
Swooning upon the floor. He raised her with
More of impatience than compassion, for
Though he could guess at love in woman, he
Thought meanly both of it and of her sex;
Nor understood the struggle in her heart;
Nor how her pity, admiration and
Sweet maiden fancies had invested him
With qualities he ne er possessed; nor could
Distinguish such a passion from some cheap
And common liking of a silly girl,
Scarce flattering his soldier s vanity.
Awaking from her swoon, she told him all,
In justice to herself. I might, she said,
Ask your love in return, but resuming
A little of her queen-like dignity
That must come of itself, if the high Gods
Ever vouchsafe it. But I ll be your wife
If you will wed me, with no recompense
Beyond what you can give and offer you
A throne, that I may scape what men will say
If you reject me. And the hard, hard word
Stuck in her throat; she faltered, and the tears
Stood in her wistful eyes.
And Doracles,
With the best grace his late defeated spirit
And flattered self-love could assume, spoke fair,
Accepting her and hers. They left the cell
Together, and his pardon was proclaimed
In full to all, and the quick courtiers vied
Who most should honour their young mistress choice
With feasts and entertainments and such sports
As might precede a bridal. Doracles,
Who was as graceful and accomplished
As a proud heart would permit, responded
In princely sort, and Daphles had begun
To hope he might learn to love her, when
He suddenly was gone, whither none knew
For a short space. And then the news was brought
To Argos: Doracles had fled unto
The foes of Daphles, and was conspiring
Anew against her crown.
And from that day
All gladness, though not kindness, went from out
The face of the young queen. She wrote to him
Without reproach, such sad and pleading words
As might have have won back the remotest heart,
Not wholly self-engrossed. And he replied
In terms that showed he held the deepest love
But as a wanton trifle. That repulse
Slow hope within her, and she pined and pined
In deepest melancholy, till her brain
Was all disordered. She drew up a will
Leaving him what his cruel greed desired,
If she should die. Her nobles murmured and
Summoned a meeting in the hope to change
Her purpose, whereat she was to preside
In the same ropes she had word on the day
Of victory. They thought the sight of it
Might nerve her feeble spirit, and assist
The arguments they meant to use against
Her sad bequest. Almost unconsciously
She let her women dress her, and they put
The garments white, edged with silver waves,
By Argive monarchs worn in remembrance
Of Inachus the river-god, their source,
Upon her frail, shrunk form; and likewise brought
The spear that she had held, and that same wreath
Of laurel which had clasped her fair young brows,
Withered green leaves and twisted stem, she took
Into her wan, thin hand and looking round
About her chair, as if remembering
Though briefly, began stripping off the leaves,
Letting them fall upon the floor. She sat
Watching them dropping, one by one, until
The circle was half bare. And then she leaned
Her sick, lorn cheek against her chair and closed
Her eyes and died.
The Argive envoys went
To Calydon, bringing to Doracles
The crown on a black cushion, and the news
Both of the young queen s death and her bequest.
The first he heard in silence, but could ill
Hide his joy at the second. Among those
Who feasted him there was an ancient lord,
Once almost brother to the former king,
And father unto Daphles. Her successor,
Marking the sorrow which he scarcely tried
To hide or hinder, and beholding him
Glance upwards at a picture blackly-veiled,
Demanded what it was and why concealed.
For if it be that noble prince, he said,
Who late held sway in Argos, think that I
Am worthy to look on it. Draw the veil.
What? Phorbas, dost thou hesitate? He frowned
Impatiently. And with a trembling hand,
But not for want of courage, the old lord
Unveiled the picture. The face of Daphles,
In all her youth and beauty flashed upon
The man who slew her.
He seemed struck, and then
gazed long and earnestly. It had been limned
Before his blight had fallen on her. She
Was portrayed smiling, loving, innocent,
Unmarred by trouble. The fair owner of
That face, he said, could ne er have been so sad
As I have heard? Pardon me, Phorbas said,
I knew it all. It cannot be, returned
King Doracles. The old man bade his guests
Retire awhile, and forthwith told him how
Daphles had pined and pined, and all the fond
Despairing things about himself which she
Had uttered ere her wits began to fail,
And after. Her wits fail? he murmured:
I know what tis to rage impatiently
At wanting mine own will, but never deemed
These women gentle creatures could feel thus
For such a trifle. Phorbas brought him out
The laurel crown and told him whose dead hands
Broke up the meeting, and gave order that
The picture might be ta en to his own room,
Promising to return it.
[second column]
For a year
He kept it, and twas said, day after day,
Stood looking on it. There were no attempts
Against his sovereignty, nor foreign wars
To bring an anodyne, nor did he care
For sport or pleasure; so would hasten from
The council-board to gaze upon the face
Of the once-blooming Daphles. Constantly
It haunted him where er he went: he might
Not thrust it from his mind, and to relieve
His longing, aching, craving wish that she
Could come back to him, looked and looked again
Remorseful. His strong, selfish will recoiled
In torture on itself. That lovingness
Reproached far worse than anger. Passionately
He yearned for the impossible; the dead,
Sweet, generous maiden who had given him
So much, to be repaid with a brute clown s
Ingratitude. A thousand, thousand times
The blood ran in red hurry to his cheeks,
In burning shame, and then left them all blanched
With melancholy, as the impotence
Of his desire smote upon him. But it were
Drear task to tell of his despair. One day
They missed him at his council-board and found
Him lying stark and dead upon the floor,
His dagger in his heart. Distractedly
He had torn town the picture from the wall,
And his cheek lay on that blooming face
Which, living, ne er had smiled at such revenge.
===================| Page |
| Title: | Thomas Butler Gunn Diaries, Volume Twenty-Two: page two hundred and two |
| Description: | Newspaper clipping of poem ''Love's Revenge,'' written by Gunn, based on Leigh Hunt's blank verse poem. |
| Subject: | Gunn, Thomas Butler; Hunt, Leigh; Poetry; Women |
| Coverage (City/State): | Banbury, [England] |
| Scan Date: | 2011-01-03 |
| Volume |
| Title: | Thomas Butler Gunn Diaries, Volume Twenty-Two |
| Description: | Includes Gunn's descriptions of his experiences as a war correspondent for ''The New York Tribune'' at New Orleans, Louisiana, and Baton Rouge, Louisiana, as well as his preparations in New York for going back to England. |
| Subject: | Boardinghouses; Civil War; Gunn, Thomas Butler; Journalism; Military; Travel; Women |
| Coverage (City/State): | New York, New York; New Orleans, Louisiana; Baton Rouge, Louisiana |
| Note: | Thomas Butler Gunn was born February 15, 1826, in Banbury, England, and came to New York in 1849. During the Civil War he worked as a correspondent for the New York Tribune and the New York Evening Post. He returned to England in 1863, and died in Birmingham in April 1903. The collection includes twenty-one volumes of his diaries, including newspaper clippings, letters, photographs, sketches, and various other items inserted by Gunn. Diary entries date from July 7, 1849, to April 7, 1863, and include his experiences with the New York publishing and literary world, his descriptions of boarding houses, his travels throughout the United States, and his experiences traveling with the Federal army as a Civil War correspondent. |
| Publisher: | Missouri History Museum |
| Rights: | Copyright 2011 Missouri History Museum. |
| Source: | Page images, transcriptions, and metadata of the Thomas Butler Gunn diaries have been provided by the Missouri History Museum. |
