The poetical remains of William Sidney Walker ... Edited with a memoir of the author by the Rev. J. Moultrie |
 |
APART BY THE EVENING FIRE. |
 | The poetical remains of William Sidney Walker |  |
36
APART BY THE EVENING FIRE.
Apart, by the evening fire she stands,
With fixed look, and folded hands;
And her breath comes calm and regular,
Through lips as still as a sleeper's are:
She gazes, all unmeaningly,
On the fitful shadows that come and flee,
On the household, lit by the torch's ray,
In their cheerful work, or their peaceful play;
But she takes no note of outward things,
For her heart is away on its wanderings.
With fixed look, and folded hands;
And her breath comes calm and regular,
Through lips as still as a sleeper's are:
She gazes, all unmeaningly,
On the fitful shadows that come and flee,
On the household, lit by the torch's ray,
In their cheerful work, or their peaceful play;
But she takes no note of outward things,
For her heart is away on its wanderings.
Through time, through space, her fancies rove
To him, her first, her only love,
Who rose like a morn on her spirit's eye,
When it woke from the dream of infancy,—
A spell-like influence, colouring
With its own rich hues each outward thing;
To him, her hope, her pride, her stay,
Her friend in sorrow, her mate in play,
Her dream in the stillness of secret thought,
Haunting her soul like a joy unsought.
To him, her first, her only love,
Who rose like a morn on her spirit's eye,
When it woke from the dream of infancy,—
A spell-like influence, colouring
With its own rich hues each outward thing;
To him, her hope, her pride, her stay,
Her friend in sorrow, her mate in play,
Her dream in the stillness of secret thought,
Haunting her soul like a joy unsought.
37
And now—what change comes o'er her now?
—'Tis the thrilling thought of his broken vow;
'Tis the pang, that shoots like an icy dart
Through all the cells of her woman's heart,
As she thinks, how he has left his own
To toil through the world alone—alone;
How years may pass, and fortunes change,
And new friends smile, and old look strange,
And daily things come o'er and o'er,
But her joy, her pride, her love—no more!
—'Tis the thrilling thought of his broken vow;
'Tis the pang, that shoots like an icy dart
Through all the cells of her woman's heart,
As she thinks, how he has left his own
To toil through the world alone—alone;
How years may pass, and fortunes change,
And new friends smile, and old look strange,
And daily things come o'er and o'er,
But her joy, her pride, her love—no more!
Oh Hope, it is a living thing!
Ye cannot bar its visiting;
The weary spirit may chide its stay,
But it will not, will not, pass away!
'Tis busy now in her heart, to tell
He still must love, who loved so well;
He left her side for a thoughtless hour,
But the spell of the past has not lost its power;
That charm shall prevail,—and griefs and fears
Be forgotten in Love's atoning tears!
Ye cannot bar its visiting;
The weary spirit may chide its stay,
But it will not, will not, pass away!
'Tis busy now in her heart, to tell
He still must love, who loved so well;
He left her side for a thoughtless hour,
But the spell of the past has not lost its power;
That charm shall prevail,—and griefs and fears
Be forgotten in Love's atoning tears!
| The poetical remains of William Sidney Walker | |