Poems (Campbell)/Poor Ida

by Dorothea Primrose Campbell

POOR IDA.

"Ah! vain essay, to cheat the heavy hour
 With music's charms—it cannot, will not be!
Too well, alas! this bosom feels thy pow'r,
 And ev'ry thought concentrates still in thee.

Oh, Henry! shall I never tear thy form
 From this believing and deluded heart—
Still must my soul endure the mental storm,
 And weep for thee till life itself depart!

When on this faded cheek, this heaving breast,
 Death's icy hand with fatal touch is laid;
Say wilt thou wander by my bed of rest,
 And drop one tear o'er thy forsaken maid?

Say, when eternal slumber seals those eyes,
 That scarcely dar'd thy tender glance to meet,
Will yet a thought within thy bosom rise
 Of her who moulders in her winding sheet?

When cold the hand, oft fondly press'd in vain,
 That trembled still thy pressure to return,
That feebly pens this last sad parting strain,
 Shall lie inactive in a nameless urn;

Wilt thou not weep? or can thy harden'd heart
 Nor aught of love, nor tender pity, feel
For her who sinks the victim of thy art,
 And dies her wrongs and anguish to conceal!

Behold me hast'ning to the silent tomb,
 And thou, the murd'rer of my peace and fame;
Yet uncomplaining will I bear my doom,
 Nor load with one reproach thy cherish'd name.

May Heav'n forgive thee, as I now forgive,
 And love and joy yet wait, dear youth! on thee:
Yet, oh! my Henry! when I cease to live,
 Think, sometimes think, upon my love and me!"

Poor Ida ceas'd—for through her shudd'ring frame
 The blood ran cold, the pulse forgot to play;
O'er her dim closing eyes dark shadows came,
 And pale in death the lovely victim lay.

Beneath this turf poor Ida's form is laid—
 Stop, gentle fair! the pitying tear is due;
For know, that once the broken-hearted maid
 Was happy, fair, and innocent as you!