THE DESERTED.
73
Then, then I knew that thou in secrecy
Hadst sought that spot, like me, to muse and weep
O'er blighted memories. Thou art, like me,
In heart a mourner. In thy solitude,
When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighs
Convulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fall
Like burning rain. Oh! 'twas thy hand that dealt
The blow to both our hearts. I well could bear
My own fierce sufferings, but thus to feel
That thou, in all thy manhood's glorious strength,
Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony,
Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weight
Of death. I see thee in my tortured dreams,
And ever with a smile upon thy lip,
But a keen arrow quivering deep within
Thy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may'st wed
Another; but beside the altar dark
My mournful form will stand, and when thou seest
The wreath of orange blossoms on her brow,
Oh! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiled
Wildly around thine own.
Hadst sought that spot, like me, to muse and weep
O'er blighted memories. Thou art, like me,
In heart a mourner. In thy solitude,
When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighs
Convulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fall
Like burning rain. Oh! 'twas thy hand that dealt
The blow to both our hearts. I well could bear
My own fierce sufferings, but thus to feel
That thou, in all thy manhood's glorious strength,
Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony,
Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weight
Of death. I see thee in my tortured dreams,
And ever with a smile upon thy lip,
But a keen arrow quivering deep within
Thy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may'st wed
Another; but beside the altar dark
My mournful form will stand, and when thou seest
The wreath of orange blossoms on her brow,
Oh! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiled
Wildly around thine own.
