4
the story of two lives.
I had, methought, bridged o’er my young despair—
I dreamed my prosperous manhood had no share
In that vain past—the records of that day
Hid (fool to think so) with that past away!
But memory lives wherever has been guilt—
The stain remains where'er the wine is spilt!
And though so hushed and still the present seemed
At times beneath its wave, strange shadows gleamed:
I looked with more of self-contempt than pain,
And proudly turned to busy life again.
All soft emotions I have long represt—
What need of garlands on a mailed breast?
So best; so marble hard my heart has grown
That what was foliage once, is now but stone,
Life petrified to flint. But what shines there?
Why do I tremble thus? Art still so fair?
Woman! did I love thee? Speak—speak! was thine
That death she read of? was that love-gift mine?
That heron-plume! are these the eyes, the mouth
Whose wooing sweetness passion-filled my youth?
Why dost thou rise before me thus? Adored,
Thy bare white arm uplifted as a sword,
What seek'st thou at my hands? was't not a Fate—
Betrayed, undone—did Love wrong more than Hate?
I dreamed my prosperous manhood had no share
In that vain past—the records of that day
Hid (fool to think so) with that past away!
But memory lives wherever has been guilt—
The stain remains where'er the wine is spilt!
And though so hushed and still the present seemed
At times beneath its wave, strange shadows gleamed:
I looked with more of self-contempt than pain,
And proudly turned to busy life again.
All soft emotions I have long represt—
What need of garlands on a mailed breast?
So best; so marble hard my heart has grown
That what was foliage once, is now but stone,
Life petrified to flint. But what shines there?
Why do I tremble thus? Art still so fair?
Woman! did I love thee? Speak—speak! was thine
That death she read of? was that love-gift mine?
That heron-plume! are these the eyes, the mouth
Whose wooing sweetness passion-filled my youth?
Why dost thou rise before me thus? Adored,
Thy bare white arm uplifted as a sword,
What seek'st thou at my hands? was't not a Fate—
Betrayed, undone—did Love wrong more than Hate?
