Poems (Chitwood)/Eva
EVA.
Bloom brightly, fair flowers Around the white stone,Where sleepeth my Eva, My loved and my own,Who hath gone from this world, And left me alone.
Oh! she was the idol Of life's early day;But, fearing the censure That worldlings might say,Pride tore my weak heart From sweet Eva away.
Her home was a cottage, All lowly, but fair,While mine was a castle, High tow'ring in air:This forced me from Eva, The gentle and fair
She died—it were better Than living apart;She died, and the sunlight Went out from my heart;She died, and the world Can no pleasure impart.
A voice is within me, It speaketh aloud,"Her pure heart you blighted— You fashioned her shroud;It is meet you should go With your heart crushed and bowed."
And over the wide world, Wherever I go,A shadow pursues me, And darkly doth throwA gloom o'er my heart, Deep throbbing with woe.
And conscience reproveth— In beauty's fair throng,At morning, at evening, Ay, all the day long,It whispers and whispers The tale of her wrong.
Oh! sweet is her slumber All quiet her rest,And closed are her dark eyes, And hushed is her breast:Sleep, sleep on, lost Eva, My dearest and best.
Last night, in my dreaming, We met as of yore;Thine arms were around me, And, beating once moreTo my own, was the pure heart, Whose throbbings are o'er.
Then changed grew the vision; Thy brow beamed with light,Thine eyes looked reproachfully, Tearful and brightInto mine, and thy shroud folds Were rustling and white.
Sweet Eva, lost Eva, My loved and my own,Hast thou gone from this dark world, And left me alone,With a stain on my heart That the world can't atone?
The plighted faith broken, All loudly it cries,And vows I have spoken Before me arise,And my heart is kept writhing While these meet my eyes.
O Eva! lost Eva! The thought of thy wrong,It haunts me, it haunts me On life's way along;My soul how it wrestleth, It can not be strong.
In dreaming, in waking, Is still by my sideThe image death's river Has failed to divideFrom my heart's adoration, My fair promised bride.
Bloom sweetly, fair flowers, Around the white stoneWhere sleepeth my Eva, My worshiped, my own,Who hath gone from this world And left me alone.