the wrecked life.
103
Not the stark visage of the unburied dead,
But by one wrecked, bereaved, and wasted life.
The late rose in her bosom mated well
Its beauty—fragrant flower and soft white breast—
Each peerless, and so frail—most fair the flower,
In its ripe harmony and fate fulfilled,
And loyal to the death unto its Queen.
Not so the Lady;—her sad life was jarred
With unaccomplished aims—discordant hopes.
She seemed as one to whom Fate owed a debt,
One never to be cancelled. Tender ties,
Sweet charities, and bounteous ministerings,
Were not for her. No father's hand had laid
A blessing on her brow;—no mother's kiss
Was as an amulet about her heart.
She seemed as if no childhood had been hers,—
Like some strong spirit, ever young and fair,
But who ignored the clinging weaknesses,
The debile and pathetic falterings
Of infancy and childhood. E'en that breast,
Which gave such promise, prodigal of love,
In its magnificent and queenly wave,
Looked marble cold;—no little child's caress
Had made it heave with soft, delicious pain,
But by one wrecked, bereaved, and wasted life.
The late rose in her bosom mated well
Its beauty—fragrant flower and soft white breast—
Each peerless, and so frail—most fair the flower,
In its ripe harmony and fate fulfilled,
And loyal to the death unto its Queen.
Not so the Lady;—her sad life was jarred
With unaccomplished aims—discordant hopes.
She seemed as one to whom Fate owed a debt,
One never to be cancelled. Tender ties,
Sweet charities, and bounteous ministerings,
Were not for her. No father's hand had laid
A blessing on her brow;—no mother's kiss
Was as an amulet about her heart.
She seemed as if no childhood had been hers,—
Like some strong spirit, ever young and fair,
But who ignored the clinging weaknesses,
The debile and pathetic falterings
Of infancy and childhood. E'en that breast,
Which gave such promise, prodigal of love,
In its magnificent and queenly wave,
Looked marble cold;—no little child's caress
Had made it heave with soft, delicious pain,
