 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
REMORSE
Alas! she did not long with me abide,
But pining slowly,
Like waning moon, she faded by my side
With melancholy,
And in our fifth spring, died.
But pining slowly,
Like waning moon, she faded by my side
With melancholy,
And in our fifth spring, died.
I lifted up the face-cloth from her face;
Upon its beauty,
Stony and still, yet lay the tender grace
Of love and duty,
And patient sorrow's trace.
Upon its beauty,
Stony and still, yet lay the tender grace
Of love and duty,
And patient sorrow's trace.
O heart, I said, that gavest me all thy wealth,
Of love's rich treasure,
And now by open service, now by stealth,
Were't fain to pleasure
My sickness or my health;
Of love's rich treasure,
And now by open service, now by stealth,
Were't fain to pleasure
My sickness or my health;
O faithful heart! and yet thou had'st from me
Observance only:
And still thy wistful, hungry look would be
Like one who, lonely,
Gazes far out at sea—
Observance only:
And still thy wistful, hungry look would be
Like one who, lonely,
Gazes far out at sea—
Gazes far out to catch the hoped-for sail
Film the horizon,
But only ocean, fretting in the gale
She sets her eyes on,
And hears the sea-mew wail.
Film the horizon,
But only ocean, fretting in the gale
She sets her eyes on,
And hears the sea-mew wail.
I gave thee what I had; but that was not
What love expected;
And when the fond heart for a fond heart sought,
Thy love detected
The emptiness it got.
What love expected;
And when the fond heart for a fond heart sought,
Thy love detected
The emptiness it got.
I took thy gold, and gave thee but my brass;
Though deep indebted,
When thou would'st look for more, I let thee pass,
Or even fretted
That thou should'st sigh, alas!
Though deep indebted,
When thou would'st look for more, I let thee pass,
Or even fretted
That thou should'st sigh, alas!
I gave thee kisses, but my kiss was cold,
And dainty dresses,
I did not grudge thee jewels set in gold
For thy caresses,
As if they had been sold.
And dainty dresses,
I did not grudge thee jewels set in gold
For thy caresses,
As if they had been sold.
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But that alacrity which doth prevent
Our wishes even,
That pleasure which on pleasing still is bent,
That was not given,
Which might thy soul content.
Our wishes even,
That pleasure which on pleasing still is bent,
That was not given,
Which might thy soul content.
Thy heart for love was longing, and mine had
No love to give it—
A ruin haunted by a memory sad,
That would not leave it
Though truth and duty bade.
No love to give it—
A ruin haunted by a memory sad,
That would not leave it
Though truth and duty bade.
I called it sentimental, silly, wrong;
But yet it nestled
The closer, and I think it grew more strong
The more I wrestled,
And I did wrestle long.
But yet it nestled
The closer, and I think it grew more strong
The more I wrestled,
And I did wrestle long.
O pardon! that I was not true to thee;
I tried to will it,
And then the Past arose and wailed in me,
Nor could I still it
More than the sounding sea.
I tried to will it,
And then the Past arose and wailed in me,
Nor could I still it
More than the sounding sea.
Ah! to be true to thee, and false to her!—
I could not do it;
Yet to be false to thee a baseness were,
And I should rue it
In life and character!
I could not do it;
Yet to be false to thee a baseness were,
And I should rue it
In life and character!
So life is ravelled almost ere we wot;
And with our vexing
To disentangle it, we make the knot
But more perplexing,
Embittering our lot.
And with our vexing
To disentangle it, we make the knot
But more perplexing,
Embittering our lot.
Farewell, true heart; my sorrow stirs in me
With no self-pity,
But shamed and self-condemning. But I see
The Holy City
Opening its gates to thee—
With no self-pity,
But shamed and self-condemning. But I see
The Holy City
Opening its gates to thee—
Opening its gates to show thee all the truth
And all the folly;
The secret of the sorrow of thy youth,
And melancholy
Which touches me with ruth.
And all the folly;
The secret of the sorrow of thy youth,
And melancholy
Which touches me with ruth.
Farewell; while thou had'st being here and breath,
The truth was hidden,
But now before the majesty of death
My soul, God-bidden,
Speaks out its better faith.
The truth was hidden,
But now before the majesty of death
My soul, God-bidden,
Speaks out its better faith.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |