The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
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The Poetical Works of George Barlow | ||
192
Why, when hopes of man are fairest, does some dark fate dash them down?
Does it give the Lord God pleasure first to crown us, then discrown?
—When I came again to Cornwall, with the first autumnal leaf,
Love, who had given me lordly pleasure, brought me never-dying grief.
Does it give the Lord God pleasure first to crown us, then discrown?
—When I came again to Cornwall, with the first autumnal leaf,
Love, who had given me lordly pleasure, brought me never-dying grief.
She was gone—to her destruction—so they told me, when I came;
If she had not fallen already, she was on the road to shame:
Dazzled by the foolish glitter of a troop of acting knaves
She had joined the troop of players,—she had left our moors and waves.
If she had not fallen already, she was on the road to shame:
Dazzled by the foolish glitter of a troop of acting knaves
She had joined the troop of players,—she had left our moors and waves.
She had left Penzance for ever—so the little letter said
That my mother grave-eyed gave me—would we think of her as dead?
She was weary of quiet pleasures—she remembered all we had done—
But the wide sweet world was waiting—there were grand crowns to be won!
That my mother grave-eyed gave me—would we think of her as dead?
She was weary of quiet pleasures—she remembered all we had done—
But the wide sweet world was waiting—there were grand crowns to be won!
193
There were crowns of fame and love-crowns, so the poor sad scrawl went on:
She could never rest contented here to live and die unknown;
I must never never seek her, she would not disgrace us, no—
It was her own choice, her doing; she had freely chosen to go.
She could never rest contented here to live and die unknown;
I must never never seek her, she would not disgrace us, no—
It was her own choice, her doing; she had freely chosen to go.
She had joined the travelling actors for a season, so she said:
That was just as a beginning—soon she would be better paid;
She would send us wondrous presents from great London,—she was told
That her voice alone would bring her fabulous wealth, uncounted gold.
That was just as a beginning—soon she would be better paid;
She would send us wondrous presents from great London,—she was told
That her voice alone would bring her fabulous wealth, uncounted gold.
We were not to be too sorry—she would far far happier be
In the midst of wild excitement than by our grey lonely sea;
For she needed wild excitement—it was always rest to dance,
And I knew what dull companions came to see her at Penzance.
In the midst of wild excitement than by our grey lonely sea;
For she needed wild excitement—it was always rest to dance,
And I knew what dull companions came to see her at Penzance.
194
She did so like jolly people! all the actors were so bright—
Got up late and tired, that's certain, but they sat up half the night
Talking, singing, telling stories—and the acting was great fun;
She liked gaslight, always, better than the ugly glaring sun.
Got up late and tired, that's certain, but they sat up half the night
Talking, singing, telling stories—and the acting was great fun;
She liked gaslight, always, better than the ugly glaring sun.
She would like me to be sorry—just a little—for her sake;
Sorry only just a little—did not want my heart to break:
I should doubtless soon find some one who would make me a better wife
(If indeed like that I loved her)—mine was not her view of life.
Sorry only just a little—did not want my heart to break:
I should doubtless soon find some one who would make me a better wife
(If indeed like that I loved her)—mine was not her view of life.
She was grateful, very grateful—we had always been most kind;
We must try now to forget her, try not overmuch to mind:
When she thought of all our goodness the thought always made her cry,
But then crying made her eyes red—that would never do—Good-bye!
We must try now to forget her, try not overmuch to mind:
When she thought of all our goodness the thought always made her cry,
But then crying made her eyes red—that would never do—Good-bye!
The Poetical Works of George Barlow | ||