8
the story of two lives.
But why, if thou wert vile, and lost, and weak,
Should I thus suffer? I adjure thee, speak!
Here must have been some early warp towards sin,
And soon or late the self-same course had been.
Had we not loved the end had been the same . . .
Ah no! that lie is burnt out as with flame.
'Twas I who sinned, 'twas I who failed thy trust;
I the forsworn, the perjured, false, unjust;
On me the guilt of thy betrayal lies;
I led thy virtue down the slope to vice.
Am I at last to this conviction brought?
What fearful horror in that damning thought!
The pseudo-virtues which I claim as mine,
My cold decorums, and the bigot line
By which I nicely gauged all human act—
Shrivel before the terror of this fact.
Large is my ruin, utter and complete,
The world's vain creeds are ashes at my feet.
I tear this grass, I fling it to the sky,
My hollow faith, its paltry forms defy—
I blaspheme God, and Fate, and Man, and all,
Because she fell as such must ever fall.
Should I thus suffer? I adjure thee, speak!
Here must have been some early warp towards sin,
And soon or late the self-same course had been.
Had we not loved the end had been the same . . .
Ah no! that lie is burnt out as with flame.
'Twas I who sinned, 'twas I who failed thy trust;
I the forsworn, the perjured, false, unjust;
On me the guilt of thy betrayal lies;
I led thy virtue down the slope to vice.
Am I at last to this conviction brought?
What fearful horror in that damning thought!
The pseudo-virtues which I claim as mine,
My cold decorums, and the bigot line
By which I nicely gauged all human act—
Shrivel before the terror of this fact.
Large is my ruin, utter and complete,
The world's vain creeds are ashes at my feet.
I tear this grass, I fling it to the sky,
My hollow faith, its paltry forms defy—
I blaspheme God, and Fate, and Man, and all,
Because she fell as such must ever fall.
