Poems (Chitwood)/The Coquette's Confession

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

THE COQUETTE'S CONFESSION.

Come, sit beside me, cousin Bell; my gems, oh take them all;
Unband my locks, and once more let their dark lengths freely fall.
The noon of night hath long gone by; soon rosy tints will creep
Along the brightening orient; but oh! I can not sleep.

I am so weary. How I loathed the bustle and the glare!
The joy, the music of to-night, how hard it was to bear!
You look upon me strangely, Bell. I know my words were gay;
But oh! I thought the weary hours would never pass away.

Mine eyes were bright, my cheek was flush'd, my step like some gazelle,
My lips were parted with soft smiles; I know it, cousin Bell.
This gilded mask I've worn so long, of cold, deceitful pride,
Has well misled the heartless world—for you, 'tis put aside.

I know that I am beautiful, and this hath been my bane;
The world hath poison'd my young heart, 'twill ne'er be pure again.
They say I am a cold coquette, and that my heart is steel;
I half believe their words myself—oh! misery, so to feel.

I know I've trifled with true hearts—it was a fearful game;
I planted thorns instead of flowers, and I shall reap the same.
One told me once, with scornful lip and proudly flashing eye,
That deep remorse should sting my soul like scorpions, by and by.

Why did I leave my cabin home? I was so happy then;
So innocent and full of joy I ne'er can be again,
Ah! chide me not, dear cousin Bell, I have no friend like thee;
But humble rustic as I was, 'twere better so to be.

O cousin Bell! that cabin home, my mother's old arm chair,
My kind old father's silver'd locks, my sister's golden hair,
My dark eyed brother, whose sweet voice my heart doth so recall;
How often in my dreams I seem again to sce them all;

Ah! I shall be no more a child, beneath the old roof tree;
No more can home, and all its scenes, be as they used to be.
I kiss my sister's soft blue eyes to slumber sweet no more,
And stand by my dear brother's side in our low cabin door.

And never more my heart can thrill to music halt so gay,
As when, with berries round my hat, I raked the new-mown hay,—
As when a careless bare-foot girl I walked beside the wain
That bore the golden harvest home—the sheafs of ripened grain.

As when I saw the sickle gleam, and from our deep old well
Drew water for the harvest hands; nay, smile not, cousin Bell;
one loved my very footfalls then—such love is more than bliss;
Take all that's precious in the world, but only leave me this!

You say my song was sweet, to-night, as some half mournful bird—
There was a pathos in my voice you ne'er before had heard;
And that in my dark eyes there dwelt a strangely wildering spell,
Unlike the flash of careless pride. I know it, cousin Bell.

Draw nearer, I will tell you all. The cast is growing bright,
And brief must be my whispered words—I saw, saw him to-night.
I thought that years had done their work, but I misjudged my pride;
Alas! I love him, cousin Bell, as none on earth beside.

Long, long I looked upon his face,—he knew not that 'twas so,—
How throbbed my heart as erst it throbbed, long weary years ago!
I met his glance—a careless glance, no lingering love was there;
Indifference, alas! alas! is worse than hate to bear!

The hazel eyes, whose dreamy depths were full of love untold;
The jetty locks, the crimson lip that smiled for me of old;
The princely step so free and firm, the tones of music light,
Bind my poor heart in fetters now. Why did I go to-night?

He loves me not—no soft note thrills to tell him of those hours
When 'neath the elm tree on the hill he twined my hair with flowers.
He cared not for my nut-brown cheek, or for my rustic dress:
He read my love within my eyes,—'twas all he cared to guess.

He loves me not! I know it well; and oh! he little deems
That he is ever by my side, in daylight and in dreams.
He loved me when a rustic maid I tossed the scented hay:
He thinks those early memories have long since passed away.

O! give me pity, cousin Bell; you ne'er have loved in vain;
You know not how it tears the heart, the clasp of such a chain.
You know not what a task it is to smile, and dance, and sing,
While every heart-beat feels a thorn, yet dares not tell their sting.

I wish I'd staid in my poor home, away out in the glen;
'Twere better they had made my grave beneath the elm tree then.
For then his tears had nurs'd the flowers that blossom'd o'er my clay;
Such love were worth the pangs of death. Sweet cousin, it is day!