第12章 III(4)

If thy love were like mine, how blest That twilight hour would seem, When, back from the regretted Past, Returned our early dream!

If thy love were like mine, how wild Thy longings, even to pain, For sunset soft, and moonlight mild, To bring that hour again!

But oft, when in thine arms I lay, I've seen thy dark eyes shine, And deeply felt their changeful ray Spoke other love than mine.

My love is almost anguish now, It beats so strong and true;'Twere rapture, could I deem that thou Such anguish ever knew.

I have been but thy transient flower, Thou wert my god divine;Till checked by death's congealing power, This heart must throb for thine.

And well my dying hour were blest, If life's expiring breath Should pass, as thy lips gently prest My forehead cold in death;And sound my sleep would be, and sweet, Beneath the churchyard tree, If sometimes in thy heart should beat One pulse, still true to me.

PARTING.

There's no use in weeping, Though we are condemned to part:

There's such a thing as keeping A remembrance in one's heart:

There's such a thing as dwelling On the thought ourselves have nursed, And with scorn and courage telling The world to do its worst.

We'll not let its follies grieve us, We'll just take them as they come;And then every day will leave us A merry laugh for home.

When we've left each friend and brother, When we're parted wide and far, We will think of one another, As even better than we are.

Every glorious sight above us, Every pleasant sight beneath, We'll connect with those that love us, Whom we truly love till death!

In the evening, when we're sitting By the fire, perchance alone, Then shall heart with warm heart meeting, Give responsive tone for tone.

We can burst the bonds which chain us, Which cold human hands have wrought, And where none shall dare restrain us We can meet again, in thought.

So there's no use in weeping, Bear a cheerful spirit still;Never doubt that Fate is keeping Future good for present ill!

APOSTASY.

This last denial of my faith, Thou, solemn Priest, hast heard;And, though upon my bed of death, I call not back a word.

Point not to thy Madonna, Priest,--

Thy sightless saint of stone;She cannot, from this burning breast, Wring one repentant moan.

Thou say'st, that when a sinless child, I duly bent the knee, And prayed to what in marble smiled Cold, lifeless, mute, on me.

I did. But listen! Children spring Full soon to riper youth;And, for Love's vow and Wedlock's ring, I sold my early truth.

'Twas not a grey, bare head, like thine, Bent o'er me, when I said, "That land and God and Faith are mine, For which thy fathers bled."

I see thee not, my eyes are dim;But well I hear thee say, "O daughter cease to think of him Who led thy soul astray.

"Between you lies both space and time;Let leagues and years prevail To turn thee from the path of crime, Back to the Church's pale."

And, did I need that, thou shouldst tell What mighty barriers rise To part me from that dungeon-cell, Where my loved Walter lies?

And, did I need that thou shouldst taunt My dying hour at last, By bidding this worn spirit pant No more for what is past?

Priest--MUST I cease to think of him?

How hollow rings that word!

Can time, can tears, can distance dim The memory of my lord?

I said before, I saw not thee, Because, an hour agone, Over my eyeballs, heavily, The lids fell down like stone.

But still my spirit's inward sight Beholds his image beam As fixed, as clear, as burning bright, As some red planet's gleam.

Talk not of thy Last Sacrament, Tell not thy beads for me;Both rite and prayer are vainly spent, As dews upon the sea.

Speak not one word of Heaven above, Rave not of Hell's alarms;Give me but back my Walter's love, Restore me to his arms!

Then will the bliss of Heaven be won;Then will Hell shrink away, As I have seen night's terrors shun The conquering steps of day.

'Tis my religion thus to love, My creed thus fixed to be;Not Death shall shake, nor Priestcraft break My rock-like constancy!

Now go; for at the door there waits Another stranger guest;He calls--I come--my pulse scarce beats, My heart fails in my breast.

Again that voice--how far away, How dreary sounds that tone!

And I, methinks, am gone astray In trackless wastes and lone.

I fain would rest a little while:

Where can I find a stay, Till dawn upon the hills shall smile, And show some trodden way?

"I come! I come!" in haste she said, "'Twas Walter's voice I heard!"

Then up she sprang--but fell back, dead, His name her latest word.

WINTER STORES.

We take from life one little share, And say that this shall be A space, redeemed from toil and care, From tears and sadness free.

And, haply, Death unstrings his bow, And Sorrow stands apart, And, for a little while, we know The sunshine of the heart.

Existence seems a summer eve, Warm, soft, and full of peace, Our free, unfettered feelings give The soul its full release.

A moment, then, it takes the power To call up thoughts that throw Around that charmed and hallowed hour, This life's divinest glow.

But Time, though viewlessly it flies, And slowly, will not stay;Alike, through clear and clouded skies, It cleaves its silent way.

Alike the bitter cup of grief, Alike the draught of bliss, Its progress leaves but moment brief For baffled lips to kiss The sparkling draught is dried away, The hour of rest is gone, And urgent voices, round us, say, "Ho, lingerer, hasten on!"

And has the soul, then, only gained, From this brief time of ease, A moment's rest, when overstrained, One hurried glimpse of peace?

No; while the sun shone kindly o'er us, And flowers bloomed round our feet,--

While many a bud of joy before us Unclosed its petals sweet,--

An unseen work within was plying;Like honey-seeking bee, From flower to flower, unwearied, flying, Laboured one faculty,--

Thoughtful for Winter's future sorrow, Its gloom and scarcity;Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow, Toiled quiet Memory.

'Tis she that from each transient pleasure Extracts a lasting good;'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure To serve for winter's food.