John Pomfret (1667-1702) was a minister's son, and a poet of some repute in his day. He graduated from Cambridge in 1688, succeeded his father as rector of Maulden in Bedfordshire in 1695 (John Bunyan, author of Pilgrim's Progress, was also the Baptist pastor in Maulden during Pomfret's life), and Pomfret's poems were published in 1699.
This poem is an imagined narrative of the evil and brutality of Percy Kirke and his Tangiers regiment known as the "Lambs", during the Monmouth Rebellion of south west England in 1685, their six week lawless rampage in July and August of that summer, and then their actions during the subsequent Bloody Assizes.
The horrific tale of the poem is based upon one well attested in history, of Kirke's personal sexual exploitation of a young woman who came to him to beg the life of her beloved who had been arrested for taking part in the rebellion. I've posted about the story here a few times here before.
Pomfret gives the young woman the name Caelia and Charion (Charon) is the name given to her husband. Kirke is Neronior (ie Nero-like), described also as a son of Moloch who was of course a Biblical demon god to whom children were sacrificed; Asmodai is the king of demons in Jewish lore. The Duke of Monmouth who led the failed rebellion is referred to as 'the unhappy man'.
The full text is online here, and is pasted below. I have coloured Kirke's words in red for ease of reference.
................
Cruelty and Lust, an Epistolary Essay
Where can the wretched'st of all creatures fly,
To tell the story of her misery?
Where, but to faithful Caelia, in whose mind
A manly bravery's with soft pity join'd.
I fear, these lines will scarce be understood,
Blur'd with incessant tears, and writ in blood;
But if you can the mournful pages read,
The sad relation shows you such a deed,
As all the annals of the' infernal reign
Shall strive to equal or exceed in vain.
Neronior's fame, no doubt, has reach'd your ears,
Whose cruelty has caus'd a sea of tears;
Fill'd each lamenting town with funeral sighs,
Deploring widows' shrieks, and orphans' cries.
At every health the horrid monster quaff'd,
Ten wretches died, and as they died, he laugh'd:
Till, tir'd with acting devil, he was led,
Drunk with excess of blood and wine, to bed.
O, cursed place! — I can no more command
My pen: shame and confusion shake my hand:
But I must on, and let my Caelia know
How barbarous are my wrongs, how vast my woe.
Among the crowds of western youths who ran
To meet the brave, betray'd, unhappy man
My husband, fatally uniting, went
Unus'd to arms, and thoughtless of the event.
But when the battle was by treachery won,
The chief, and all but his false friend, undone;
Though, in the tumult of that desperate night,
He scap'd the dreadful slaughter of the fight
Yet the sagacious bloodhounds skill'd too well
In all the murdering qualities of hell,
Each secret place so regularly beat,
They soon discover'd his unsafe retreat.
As hungry wolves triumphing o'er their prey
To sure destruction hurry them away;
So the purveyors of fierce Moloch's son
With Charion to the common butchery run;
Where proud Neronior by his gibbet stood,
To glut himself with fresh supplies of blood.
Our friends, by powerful intercession, gain'd
A short reprieve, but for three days obtain'd,
To try all ways might to compassion move
The savage general; but in vain they strove.
When I perceiv'd that all addresses fail'd,
And nothing o'er his stubborn soul prevail'd ;
Distracted almost, to his tent I flew,
To make the last effort what tears could do.
Low on my knees I fell ; then thus began:
"Great genius of success, thou more than man!
Whose arms to every clime have terror hurl'd,
And carried conquest round the trembling world!
Still may the brightest glories Fame can lend,
Your sword, your conduct, and your cause, attend.
Here now the arbiter of fate you sit,
While suppliant slaves their rebel heads submit.
Oh, pity the unfortunate! and give
But this one thing: Oh, let but Charion live!
And take the little all that we possess
I'll bear the meagre anguish of distress
Content, nay, pleas'd to beg or earn my bread;
Let Charion live, no matter how I'm fed.
The fall of such a youth no lustre brings
To him whose sword performs such wondrous things
As saving kingdoms, and supporting kings.
That triumph only with true grandeur shines,
Where godlike courage, godlike pity joins.
Caesar, the eldest favourite of war,
Took not more pleasure to submit, than spare:
And since in battle you can greater be,
That over, ben't less merciful than he.
Ignoble spirits by revenge are known,
And cruel actions spoil the conqueror's crown;
In future histories fill each mournful page
With tales of blood, and monuments of rage:
And, while his annals are with horror read,
Men curse him living, and detest him dead.
Oh! do not sully with a sanguine dye
(The foulest stain) so fair a memory!
Then, as you'll live the glory of our isle,
And Fate on all your expeditions smile :
So when a noble course you've bravely ran,
Die the best soldier, and the happiest man.
None can the turns of Providence foresee,
Or what their own catastrophe may be;
Therefore, to persons labouring under woe,
That mercy they may want, should always show,
For in the chance of war, the slightest thing
May lose the battle, or the victory bring.
And how would you that general's honour prize,
Should in cool blood his captive sacrifice?
"He that with rebel arms to fight is led,
To justice forfeits his opprobrious head:
But 'tis unhappy Charion's first offence,
Seduc'd by some too plausible pretence,
To take the injuring side by error brought
He had no malice, though he has the fault.
Let the old tempters find a shameful grave,
But the half innocent, the tempted, save;
Vengeance divine, though for the greatest crime,
But rarely strikes the first or second time;
And he best follows the Almighty's will.
Who spares the guilty he has power to kill.
When proud rebellions would unhinge a state,
And wild disorders in a land create,
'Tis requisite the first promoters should
Put out the flames they kindled with their blood:
But sure 'tis a degree of murder, all
That draw their swords should undistinguish'd fall.
And since a mercy must to some be shown,
Let Charion 'mongst the happy few be one:
For as none guilty has less guilt than he,
So none for pardon has a fairer plea.
"When David's general had won the field,
And Absalom, the lov'd ungrateful, kill'd,
The trumpets sounding made all slaughter cease,
And misled Israelites return'd in peace.
The action past, where so much blood was spilt,
We hear of none arraign'd for that day's guilt;
But all concludes with the desir'd event,
The monarch pardons, and the Jews repent.
"As great example your great courage warms,
And to illustrious deeds excites your arms;
So when you instances of mercy view,
They should inspire you with compassion too
For he that emulates the truly brave,
Would always conquer, and should always save."
Here, interrupting, stern Neronior cried,
(Swell'd with success, and blubber'd up with pride)
"Madam, his life depends upon my will,
For every rebel I can spare or kill.
I'll think of what you've said: this night return
At ten, perhaps you'll have no cause to mourn.
Go, see your husband, bid him not despair ;
His crime is great, but you are wondrous fair."
When anxious miseries the soul amaze,
And dire confusion in the spirits raise,
Upon the least appearance of relief,
Our hopes revive, and mitigate our grief;
Impatience makes our wishes earnest grow,
Which through false optics our deliverance show,
For while we fancy danger does appear
Most at a distance, it is oft too near,
And many times, secure from obvious foes,
We fall into an ambuscade of woes.
Pleas'd with the false Neronior's dark reply,
I thought the end of all my sorrows nigh,
And to the main-guard hasten'd, where the prey
Of this blood-thirsty fiend in durance lay.
When Charion saw me, from his turfy bed
With eagerness he rais'd his drooping head:
"Oh ! fly, my dear, this guilty place, (he cried)
And in some distant clime thy virtue hide
Here nothing but the foulest demons dwell,
The refuge of the damn'd, and mob of hell;
The air they breathe is every atom curs'd;
There's no degree of ills, for all are worst.
In rapes and murders they alone delight,
And villanies of less importance slight:
Act them indeed, but scorn they should be nam'd,
For all their glory's to be more than damn'd.
Neronior's chief of this infernal crew,
And seems to merit that high station too:
Nothing but rage and lust inspire his breast,
By Asmodai and Moloch both possess'd.
When told you went to intercede tor me,
It threw my soul into an agony;
Not that I would not for my freedom give
What's requisite, or do not wish to live;
But for my safety I can ne'er be base,
Or buy a few short years with long disgrace;
Nor would I have your yet unspotted fame
For me expos'd to an eternal shame.
With ignominy to preserve my breath
Is worse, by infinite degrees, than death.
But if I can't my life with honour save
With honour I'll descend into the grave.
For though revenge and malice both combine
(As both to fix my ruin seem to join)
Yet, maugre all their violence and skill,
I can die just, and I'm resolv'd I will.
"But what is death we so unwisely fear?
An end of all our busy tumults here
The equal lot of poverty and state,
Which all partake of, by a certain fate.
Whoe'er the prospect of mankind surveys,
At divers ages, and by divers ways,
Will find them from this noisy scene retire:
Some the first minute that they breathe, expire;
Others, perhaps, survive to talk, and go;
But die, before they good or evil know.
Here one to puberty arrives; and then
Returns lamented to the dust again:
Another there maintains a longer strife
With all the powerful enemies of life;
Till, with vexation tir'd, and threescore years,
He drops into the dark, and disappears.
I'm young, indeed, and might expect to see
Times future, long and late posterity
'Tis what with reason I could wish to do,
If to be old, were to be happy too.
But since substantial grief so soon destroys
The gust of all imaginary joys,
Who would be too importunate to live,
Or more for life, than it can merit, give!
"Beyond the grave stupendous regions lie,
The boundless realms of vast eternity ;
Where minds, remov'd from earthly bodies, dwell
But who their government or laws can tell?
What's their employment till the final doom
And time's eternal period shall come?
Thus much the sacred oracles declare,
That all are bless'd or miserable there
Though, if there's such variety of fate,
None good expire too soon, nor bad too late.
For my own part, with resignation still
I can submit to my Creator's will
Let him recal the breath from him I drew,
When he thinks fit, and when he pleases too.
The way of dying is my least concern
That will give no disturbance to my urn.
If to the seats of happiness I go,
There end all possible returns of woe
And when to those bless'd mansions I arrive,
With pity I'll behold those that survive.
Once more I beg, you'd from these tents retreat,
And leave me to inv innocence and fate.'
"Charion, (said I) Oh, do not urge my flight!
I'll see the' event of this important night:
Some strange presages in my soul forebode,
The worst of miseries, or the greatest good.
Few hours will show the utmost of my doom
A joyful safety, or a peaceful tomb.
If you miscarry, I'm resolv'd to try
If gracious Heav'n will suffer me to die:
For, when you are to endless raptures gone,
If I survive, 'tis but to be undone.
Who will support an injur'd widow's right,
From sly injustice, or oppressive might?
Protect her person, or her cause defend?
She rarely wants a foe, or finds a friend.
I've no distrust of Providence; but still
'Tis best to go beyond the reach of ill
And those can have no reason to repent,
Who, though they die betimes, die innocent.
But to a world of everlasting bliss
Why would you go, and leave me here in this?
'Tis a dark passage; but our foes shall view,
I'll die as calm, though not so brave, as you:
That my behaviour to the last may prove
Your courage is not greater than my love."
The hour approach'd; as to Neronior's tent,
With trembling, but impatient steps, I went,
A thousand horrors throng'd into my breast,
By sad ideas and strong fears possess'd:
Where'er I pass'd, the glaring lights would show
Fresh objects of despair, and scenes of woe.
Here, in a crowd of drunken soldiers, stood
A wretched, poor, old man, besmear'd with blood
And at his feet, just through the body run,
Struggling for life, was laid his only son;
By whose hard labour he was daily fed,
Dividing still, with pious care, his bread:
And while he mourn'd, with floods of aged tears,
The sole support of his decrepit years,
The barbarous mob, whose rage no limit knows,
With blasphemous derision mock'd his woes.
There, under a wide oak, disconsolate,
And drown'd in tears, a mournful widow sate.
High in the boughs the murder'd father hung
Beneath, the children round the mother clung:
They cried for food, but 'twas without relief:
For all they had to live upon, was grief.
A sorrow so intense, such deep despair,
No creature, merely human, long could bear.
First in her arms her weeping babes she took,
And, with a groan, did to her husband look
Then lean'd her head on theirs, and, signing, cried,
'Pity me, Saviour of the world!' and died.
From this sad spectacle my eyes I turn'd,
Where sons their fathers, maids their lovers, mourn'd
Friends for their friends, sisters for brothers, wept,
Prisoners of war, in chains, for slaughter kept
Each every hour did the black message dread,
Which should declare the person lov'd was dead.
Then I beheld, with brutal shouts of mirth,
A comely youth, and of no common birth,
To execution led ; who hardly bore
The wounds in battle he receiv'd before:
And, as he pass'd, I heard him bravely cry,
"I neither wish to live, nor fear to die."
At the curs'd tent arriv'd, without delay,
They did me to the General convey
Who thus began –––
"Madam! by fresh intelligence, I find,
That Charion's treason's of the blackest kind;
And my commission is express to spare
None that so deeply in rebellion are
New measures therefore 'tis in vain to try;
No pardon can be granted: he must die!
Must, or I hazard all: which yet I'd do
To be oblig'd in one request by you
And, maugre all the dangers I foresee,
Be mine this night, I'll set your husband free.
Soldiers are rough, and cannot hope success
By supple flattery, and by soft address
The pert, gay coxcomb, by these little arts,
Gains an ascendant o'er the ladies hearts.
But I can no such whining methods use
Consent, he lives; he dies, if you refuse.'
Amaz'd at this demand ; said I, "The brave,
Upon ignoble terms, disdain to save:
They let their captives still with honour live,
No more require, than what themselves would give;
For, generous victors, as they scorn to do
Dishonest things, scorn to propose them too.
Mercy, the brightest virtue of the mind,
Should with no devious appetite bejoin'd:
For if, when exercis'd, a crime it cost,
The' intrinsic lustre of the deed is lost.
Great men their actions of a piece should have;
Heroic all, and each entirely brave
From the nice rules of honour none should swerve
Done, because good, without a mean reserve.
"The crimes new charg'd upon the' unhappy youth,
May have revenge, and malice, but no truth.
Suppose the accusation justly brought,
And clearly prov'd to the minutest thought;
Yet mercies next to infinite abate
Offences next to infinitely great
And 'tis the glory of a noble mind,
In full forgiveness not to be confin'd.
Your prince's frowns if you have cause to fear.
This act will more illustrious appear
Though his excuse can never be withstood,
Who disobeys, but only to be good.
Perhaps the hazard's more than you express;
The glory would be, were the danger less.
For he that, to his prejudice, will do
A noble action, and a generous too,
Deserves to wear a more resplendent crown
Than he that has a thousand battles won.
Do not invert divine compassion so,
As to be cruel, and no mercy show
Of what renown can such an action be,
Which saves my husband's life, but ruins me?
Though, if you finally resolve to stand
Upon so vile, inglorious a demand,
He must submit ; if 'tis my fate to mourn
His death, I'll bathe with virtuous tears his urn".
"Well, madam, (haughtily, Neronior cried)
Your courage and your virtue shall be tried.
But to prevent all prospect of a flight,
Some of my lambs shall be your guard to-night
By them, no doubt, you'll tenderly be us'd;
They seldom ask a favour that's refus'd :
Perhaps you'll find them so genteely bred,
They'll leave you but few virtuous tears to shed.
Surrounded with so innocent a throng,
The night must pass delightfully along:
And in the morning, since you will not give
What I require, to let your husband live,
You shall behold him sigh his latest breath,
And gently swing into the arms of death.
His fate he merits, as to rebels due
And yours will be as much deserv'd by you.'
Oh, Caelia, think! so far as thought can show,
What pangs of grief, what agonies of woe,
At this dire resolution, seiz'd my breast,
By all things sad and terrible possess'd.
In vain I wept, and 'twas in vain I pray'd,
For all my prayers were to a tiger made
A tiger! worse; for, 'tis beyond dispute,
No fiend's so cruel as a reasoning brute.
Encompass'd thus, and hopeless of relief,
With all the squadrons of despair and grief,
Ruin ––– it was not possible to shun
What could I do? Oh! what would you have done?
The hours that pass'd, till the black morn return'd,
With tears of blood should be for ever mourn'd.
When, to involve me with consummate grief,
Beyond expression, and above belief,
"Madam, (the monster cried) that you may find
I can be grateful to the fair that's kind;
Step to the door, I'll show you such a sight,
Shall overwhelm your spirits with delight.
Does not that wretch, who would dethrone his king,
Become the gibbet, and adorn the string?
You need not now an injur'd husband dread
Living he might, he'll not upbraid you dead.
'Twas for your sake I seiz'd upon his life
He would perhaps have scorn'd so chaste a wife.
And, madam, you'll excuse the zeal I show,
To keep that secret none alive should know.'
"Curs'd of all creatures! for, compar'd with thee,
The devils (said I) are dull in cruelty.
Oh, may that tongue eternal vipers breed,
And, wasteless, their eternal hunger feed;
In fires too hot for salamanders dwell,
The burning earnest of a hotter hell;
May that vile lump of execrable lust
Corrupt alive, and rot into the dust
May'st thou, despairing at the point of death,
With oaths and blasphemies resign thy breath;
And the worst torments that the damn'd should share,
In thine own person all united bear!'
"Oh, Caelia! oh, my friend! what age can show
Sorrows like mine, so exquisite a woe?
Indeed it does not infinite appear,
Because it can't be everlasting here
But it's so vast, that it can ne'er increase;
And so confirm'd, it never can be less.
One of the most acclaimed books about the ideas which fuelled American independence is Trevor Colbourn's The Lamp of Experience: Whig History and the Intellectual Origins of the American Revolution, first published in 1965. Colbourn had an MA from the College of William and Mary in Virginia, so maybe his interest is no big surprise. The book title was taken from Patrick Henry's historic speech of 1775 at the Second Virginia Convention at St John's Church in Richmond, Virginia. But who were the Whigs?
