the wrecked life.
101
Facing the east, the sunset on his wings,
Exalt o'er Rome,—within, impassive bronze.
And there are some whose sorrows give them palms;
Others, whose passion is of shame—who, 'stead
Of saintly aureole must wear a brand,
A stigma ineffaceable and drear,
In expiation of Ancestral wrong.
Whate'er it was—the burden of the heart
Which bled to death within that lady's breast
Remained for aye a solemn mystery.
She had no commune with the outer world;
But once some hurried, sudden tidings came—
A few brief words writ on a mourning scroll:
She read with breathless, fevered haste, then rose,
And tore off from her slender hand a ring,
So hastily the soft fair skin was grazed.
She smiled—a bitter, sad, self-pitying smile—
"The link has chafed me deeper here," she said,
And smote her breast—"Free—free—too late—my God!
A life-long sorrow, and a life-deep wrong,
For the blind error of a girl's vain choice—
Is this thy law—is this thy justice—God?"
And one large, heavy tear dropped slowly down,
Exalt o'er Rome,—within, impassive bronze.
And there are some whose sorrows give them palms;
Others, whose passion is of shame—who, 'stead
Of saintly aureole must wear a brand,
A stigma ineffaceable and drear,
In expiation of Ancestral wrong.
Whate'er it was—the burden of the heart
Which bled to death within that lady's breast
Remained for aye a solemn mystery.
She had no commune with the outer world;
But once some hurried, sudden tidings came—
A few brief words writ on a mourning scroll:
She read with breathless, fevered haste, then rose,
And tore off from her slender hand a ring,
So hastily the soft fair skin was grazed.
She smiled—a bitter, sad, self-pitying smile—
"The link has chafed me deeper here," she said,
And smote her breast—"Free—free—too late—my God!
A life-long sorrow, and a life-deep wrong,
For the blind error of a girl's vain choice—
Is this thy law—is this thy justice—God?"
And one large, heavy tear dropped slowly down,
