Verses of a life time :: :: University of Virginia Library

They came before the altar in their love,
“And both were young, and one was beautiful”
He stood in strength, and she in trustingness.
The dark curls, flung from off his open brow,
Revealed its Jove-like fullness, while her hair
With free and floating tresses, veil'd the cheek
That blush'd and paled in beautiful surprise,
As the strong waves of hope and memory,
With struggling current, mov'd her depth of heart.
Firm was his step, like one whose soul is nerv'd
For combat with the world; a rock for life's
Rough waves to dash on; while her airy tread
“Scarce from the heath-flower dash'd the morning dew.”

They sought their fair and solitary home;—
Fit residence! The silent trees stood round,
Nor mock'd young love's first tenderness. Spring flowers
Look'd up and smil'd; and happy birds trill'd out
The epithalamium chaunt. It was the heart's
Fresh holiday.

A rolling year went by,
“When on their eyes a new existence smil'd,”
And Agnes clasp'd a babe, a living boy,
To her young throbbing breast, and Winton press'd
His lips, with thoughts that man but once can know,
Upon his first-born's brow. O was not this
Earth's Paradise? Alas, that in its path
A serpent should arise with specious wile!

A change come o'er that scene of quiet bliss,
And Agnes' soft caress and the boy's smile
Fell cold on Winton's heart; he stray'd from home;
His brow grew pale, abstracted, and dark words
Broke muttering through his sleep. Rumor awoke
Whispering of guilty haunts, and rumor grew
To dreadful certainty.
One night, among
The reckless band that seek the gamester's hall,
Frantic, young Winton stood, a ruin'd man.
With staggering step, clench'd hands and fiery eyes
He wildly raved; then, crush'd and impotent,
As thoughts of home and Agnes cross'd his mind,
Lean'd his hot, aching brow, upon his hand.
Ha! is it so? A mirror to his eye
Discloses signs and looks, from one in view,
That speak of fraud and trickery! Winton sprang,

And with a bound fierce as a tiger's leap,
Levell'd a blow with word opprobrious.

The morning light rose coldly on his eyes!
That eve must stamp him murderer, or must lay
His senseless form within a hurried grave.
He call'd on one who long had lov'd and warn'd,
(Alas, how fruitlessly he lov'd and warn'd!)
To aid him in the coming scene of blood.
The good physician went. Strange courtesies
Pass'd round; the studied bow, the measur'd step
And gravely busy air. Upon a mound
He sat, and mark'd the scene. There was the sky
Expanding its wide arms in love; the trees
Were whispering kindness; blossoms smilingly
Turn'd their soft leaves upon the passing breeze,
Which kiss'd them as it rov'd;—all, all but man
In harmony with heaven.
His heart was touch'd;
Thought with its busy tide came deep and strong;
Earth seem'd a speck,—eternity was all;
And on that mound arose his solemn vow,
That never, while the life-blood fill'd his veins,
And reason kept her throne, would he by thought,
Or word, or deed, or presence, sanction give
To the duello's dark and murderous rite.

Fierce was the cry for blood; the signal pass'd;
Life gush'd and Winton was a murderer.

Rapid his fate; the stone that from the height
Of some far mountain dashes to the earth,
Falls not more certainly than he, who seeks
The downward progress of the gamester's way.

Whose is that spectral form, that by the light
Of new-born day seeks the cold casement's air,
And strains her sight with yet a lingering hope
Her lov'd one may return? For he is lov'd,
As woman still will love through slight and shame.
'T is Agnes, sad and chill; the bright rose gone
That deck'd her cheek; the elastic step subdued,
Her soft eye dim with tears, that fall in showers
Upon her sleeping boy.
He comes, but how?
The intended victim of self-murder. Pale
And weak he lies, by menial arms upborne,
And Agnes kneels beside him, bathes his brow
With her soft hands, calls fondly on his name
In tones as soft as when, a blushing girl,
She dared to breathe it only to the winds.
She, the high-born, the beautiful, the good,
For him prays fondly. She is heard. He lives.

Lives? What is life? Is it to breathe earth's air,
To tread its soil, to eat, to drink, to sleep?
This is not life. The man that knows but this,
Had better sink in dust, in dark oblivion.
He only lives whose soul is blent with heaven,
Like dew that falls at night to rise at morn.

The Gamester liv'd; reviv'd, on Agnes' brow
To stamp deep furrows; sear her gentle heart
With unheal'd wounds, and fill his cup of sin
With the deep scandal of a felon's crime.

He died—a hiss of scorn and infamy
Went up upon his grave, his boy unlearn'd
The name of father, and his drooping wife,
With downcast eyes, went sorrowing to the tomb.