 | Two women : 1862 |  |
1864. WASHINGTON.
The Lady(with an open letter).
Married! Nay, now the little vexing fear
That troubled the calm hollow of my grief
With its small aching is withdrawn, and clear
The certainty—she never loved him. Brief
Her forgetting—brief!—But I will not chide;
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And of my gold a sister's share!
To wed
Another, and once his! O golden head
Under the grass, how jealous is my heart
Of thy remembrance! Yet I should be glad
She loved thee not, for then no evil part
I played, e'en though unconsciously.
Oh, mad,
Mad, mad my love for thee! the same to-day—
The same, the same. I could not be a wife—
I could not stop the sun! No love but thee,
My own, my own! no kiss but thine—no voice
To call me those sweet names that memory
Brings back with tears. Ah! had I any choice,
I still must love thee down beneath the sod
More than all else—though grandest soul that God
Had ever made did woo me. Love, my heart
Is thine, and ever must be thine; thy name
Is branded there!
Yet must I live my life.
Servant
(announcing).
The Count.
The Lady.
Another? Ah! poor fools. The game
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My part with smiles that are not wholly feigned,
For life is strong, and I am young.—There reigned
A queen once, who, though dead, could not lay down
Her long-used sceptre; with her jeweled crown
Upon her head, she sat and meted out
Reward and justice; nor did any doubt
Her life was gone. Were not her robes the same—
Her jewels bright? And had she not a name
Borne wide upon the winds for loveliness?
She could not stop—she needs must reign—noblesse
Oblige! So I.
But she—married! a wife!
Who once was his! Oh, horrible! a life
Of treason to his memory, a long
Lie! But, ah! no, she never loved him. I
Do hold myself as his, and loyally,
Royally, keep my vow.
Servant.
What shall I say,
Madam?
The Lady
(speaks).
Show in the Count.
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Ah! well-a-day!
One must do something.
The Count
(entering).
Madame, je viens—
| Two women : 1862 | |