Poems (Griffith)/The Deserted
The Deserted.
WHY didst thou leave me thus? Had memoryNo chain to bind thee to me, lone and wrecked In spirit as I am? Was there no spell Of power in my deep, yearning love to stir The sleeping fountain of thy soul, and keep My image trembling there? Is there no charm In strong and high devotion such as mine,To win thee to my side once more? Must I Be cast for ever off for brighter forms And gayer smiles? Alas! I love thee still. Love will not, cannot perish in my heart—'Twill linger there for ever. Even now In our own dear, sweet sunset time, the hour Of passion's unforgotten tryst, I hush The raging tumult of my soul, and still The fierce strife in my lonely breast where pride Is fiercely struggling for control. Each hue Of purple, gold and crimson that flits o'er The western sky, recalls some by-gone joy, That we have shared together, and my soul Is love's and memory's
As here I sit In loneliness, the thought comes o'er my heart, How side by side in moonlight eves, while soft The rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stood Beside that clear and gently-murmuring fount O'erhung with wild and blooming vines, and felt The spirit of a holy love bedew Our hearts' own budding blossoms. There I drank The wild, o'ermasterlng tide of eloquence That flowed from thy o'erwrought and burning soul. There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowers To shine amid my dark brown locks, and now Beside me lies a bud, the little bud Thou gav'st me in the glad, bright Summer-time, Telling me 'twas the emblem of a hope That soon would burst to glorious life within Our spirits' garden. The poor fragile bud Is now all pale and withered, and the hope Is faded in my lonely breast, and cast For ever forth from thine.
They tell me, too, My brow and cheek are very pale—Alas! There is no more a spirit-fire within To light it with the olden glow. Life's dreams And visions all have died within my soul, And I am sad, and lone, and desolate; And yet at times, when I behold thee near, A something like the dear old feeling stirs Within my breast, and wakens from the tomb Of withered memories one pale, pale rose, To bloom a moment there, and cast around Its sweet and gentle fragrance, but anon It vanishes away, as if it were A mockery, the spectre of a flower. I quell my struggling sighs, and wear a smile; But ah! that smile, more eloquent than sighs, Tells of a broken heart.
'Tis said that thou Dost ever shine the gayest amid the gay, That loudest rings thy laugh in festive halls, That in the dance, with lips all wreathed in smiles, Thou whisperest love's delicious flatteries; And if my name is spoken, a light sneer Is all thy comment. Yet, proud man, I know Beneath thy hollow mask of recklessness, Thy conscious heart still beats as true to me As in the happy eves long past. Ah! once, In night's still hour, when I went forth to weep Beneath our favorite tree, whose giant arms Seemed stretched out to protect the lonely girl, I marked a figure stealing thence away, And my poor heart beat quick; for oh! I saw, Despite the closely muffled cloak, 'twas thou. 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.
I'm dying now; Life's sands are falling fast, the silver cord Is loosed and broken, and the golden bowl Is shattered at the fount. My sun has set, And dismal clouds hang o'er me; but afar I see the glorious realm of Paradise, And by its cooling fountains, and beneath Its holy shades of palm, my soul will wash Away its earthly stains, and learn to dream Of heavenly joys. Farewell! despite thy cold Desertion, I will leave my angel home, Each gentle eve, at our own hour of tryst, To hold my vigils o'er thy pilgrimage, And with my spirit-pinion I will fan Thy aching brow, and by a holy spell, That I may learn in Heaven, will charm away All evil thoughts and passions from thy breast, And calm the raging tumult of thy soul.