University of Virginia Library

The moon was high in heaven. The burning stars
Were looking down on slumbering innocence,
And guile, and sin, and grief. Alethe sat
Watching the dying embers on the hearth
Go silently and slowly out. The night
Was wearing on. She had been waiting long,
To hear the welcome footsteps of the one
On whom her young affections had been flung,
Unchanging as the ever-during hue
Of the all-glorious heaven. He came not yet—
And wearied with her watching, she lay down
In very wretchedness; and tears—hot tears,
Burst from the choking fountains of her heart,
Searing their courses. Tremulous and weak
Her voice arose in prayer—and the sweet tone,
That came like music from her thin, pale lips,
Melted at length into a dreamy sound,
Almost inaudible, save unto Him
Who readeth well the human heart. The tears
That burningly stole down her wasted cheek,
From her soul's depth of feeling, ceased their flow,
As though the waves of trouble had been stilled;
And slumber came upon her, as a balm
From Him that healeth up the broken heart!

Alethe was neglected. She had linked
Her destinies with one who bowed him down,
In deep humiliation, at the shrine
Of Drunkenness. Alethe long had striven
To win him from the desolating sin
That bowed his spirit like a pestilence.
But all was vain. A weary year wore on—
And the deep kindnesses she did for him,
Were all unheeded. Then he slighted her,
And then—neglected!
Woman hath a heart
Of holy fervidness—that trusteth much
In man's harsh nature—that endureth oft
The keenest suffering—that treasureth up
Each kindly word and look—ay! hoardeth them
With even miser care! She hath an eye
Of winning restlessness, that feedeth on
The idol of her love, with strange delight
And confidence. Still she hath that within
Which will not brook neglect: but either turn
With a fell purpose on her injurer,
And deeply be avenged—or brood in dread
And harrowing silentness, on the intense
And burning sense of wrong she hath endured,
Until her proud heart breaketh of its weight
Of cherished agony!
Another year
Wore on in silent suffering—and she lay
Calmly upon her bed of death, a seared
And broken-hearted one. Around her couch
Were those who knew her in her spring of life,
Ere she had drunk the ‘wormwood and the gall;’
Ere care had furrowed her queenly brow,
And dimm'd its soft transparence; and before
The richness of her early love was flung
Away, but to be blighted in the bud.

The voice of age was blended with the low,
Faint murmuring, of the sufferer. The dim spark
Of life was soon extinguished—and she lay
In the embrace of the bereaving King!

How strong is woman in her love! but, oh!
How often madly blind, and culpable!
She kneels in deep idolatry, before
Unworthiness itself; and twines her arms
Around a thing whose core is rottenness.
And she will leave it not;—nor friends' advice—
Nor her own consciousness that it will prove
A blight upon her happiness and hopes—
Nor the entreaties of the few that love
Her as their own existence—can avail:
She disregards them all, and closer clings
—Frenzied, that they would tear it from her clasp—
Unto the object of her heart's embrace;
And—when it falleth of its rottenness,
She with it falls!