Poems (Griffith)/Thou Lovest Me No More

by Mattie Griffith

Thou Lovest Me No More.

THOU lovest me no more. It needs not words
To tell me thou art altered now. Alas!
I mark it well in thy cold, studied tone.
Oh would affection seek its warmth to hide
In tones whose chilling, freezing cadences
Fall on the soul like Alpine drops? 'Tis true
Thou still dost say that I am dear; thy lip
Still murmurs all love's practised flatteries,
But thy stern glance of cold and withering pride
Turns all the hollow mockeries of thy words
To bitter, bitter ashes on my heart.
I utter no reproaches. Slowly now
And silently and mournfully ope
My spirit's rosy-gate, and drive from thence
Each dear and starwinged hope that I have loved
Through long, long years to cherish.

                   Never more,—
Oh never more, thou false one, may I bear
In vernal bower or in the gilded hall,
A flee, and light, and happy heart. Yet I
Shall mingle still amid the wild and gay,
My laugh will echo loudest in the din
Of mirth and joyousness, and none may know
The soul's deep bitterness, the quivering hopes
Crushed on the spirit's hearth. My smiles will be
As bright as they have been, and none may see,
That, cold and vacant like the moon's pale beams
Upon a ruined temple, they but light
The gloom and shadow that keep watch below.
Mine still will be the gay and merry jest,
The keen reply, the free and buoyant tread,
And none may ever rend the veil, and see
What darkly lies beneath.

              But think thou not,
Proud and perfidious one, my strong, stern pride
Shall fail me in my solitude. Ah no,
The unrelenting tear may never break
Forth from its deep and hidden fount. The spell
Of passion still is on me, but disdain
Heeds not the murmuring tone of love's wild chant,
That rises like the low voice of the wind
Wandering at midnight o'er the mouldering chords
Of a neglected harp. For ever crushed
And broken be the rosy memories
That in their fairy beauty floated erst
Through my love-lighted soul.

                Thy ring is cold,
It seems to bind my finger with a spell
Of ice, for its bright circle is not now
The emblem of unending truth and trust.
I'm gazing on thy picture, but I see
No smile of sweet endearment on these lips,
No high devotion on this pale, stern brow,
No gleam of tore-light beaming in these eyes
Of midnight fire—nay even here is change.
I send thee back thy vain and worthless gifts—
Ah, proud one, would that I could give thee back
Thy bosom's truth.

          I said I would not weep
Again, but drops of mingled tears and blood,
From the recesses of a breaking heart
Are gushing, and the shower has brought relief;
For oh! I feel that now the awful gloom
Which filled my bosom with its cloudy weight,
Is broken and dispersed. Within its deep
Dark mists the genius of the tempest stood
Like a dread night-mare of the soul, and held
My spirit's elements in thrall. but now
The loosened zephyrs wander as they list,
The deep, strong spell that bound them is dissolved,
And lo! the twilight soft comes stealing on
With its one star, the star of memory,
Pale, pale, but very beautiful.

               I count
The drops that, one by one, fall on my heart,
Turning its woman's softness into stone;
Yet, to that heart, all worn and changed, thou still
Art dear, and ever wilt be dear Some thoughts
Of thee, though all my future years will be
Like by-gone music lingering in my soul,
A sweet bird-carol heard in childhood's years,
Or like the lone funereal lamp that burns
Within the dark and solitary depths
Of Eastern tombs, forever shining on
Where all around is death and dull decay.