A Poetry of Exiles By Douglas B. W. Sladen: An Australian colonist: Second edition, revised |
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THE TURNED PICTURE. |
 | A Poetry of Exiles |  |
81
THE TURNED PICTURE.
Yes! this is Madeline's bedside: how strange that I am here!
We have not changed a dozen words in all the lonely year—
She once was sunbeam of the house, the pet and pride of all,
Though now her picture hangs at home with face toward the wall.
We have not changed a dozen words in all the lonely year—
She once was sunbeam of the house, the pet and pride of all,
Though now her picture hangs at home with face toward the wall.
I never quarrelled with her; we were best of friends always:
She was my favourite sister from our childhood's happy days;
Had it not been for Herb—and yet I love her most, I think,
For marrying the man she loved, let the ship swim or sink.
She was my favourite sister from our childhood's happy days;
Had it not been for Herb—and yet I love her most, I think,
For marrying the man she loved, let the ship swim or sink.
The day the door closed on her, when she went her way to wed,
It closed on her for ever—in his wrath my father said:
Not dreaming as his anger rose, that she'd be lying here,
Half through the gate of life and death, and all within the year.
It closed on her for ever—in his wrath my father said:
Not dreaming as his anger rose, that she'd be lying here,
Half through the gate of life and death, and all within the year.
Could I forgive him—or myself, if Maggie were to die,
Who never dealt me one hard look, one wound in a reply?
And yet I lacked the courage, in the hour of her disgrace,
To brave his wrath and tell her I was hers, before his face.
Who never dealt me one hard look, one wound in a reply?
And yet I lacked the courage, in the hour of her disgrace,
To brave his wrath and tell her I was hers, before his face.
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Still lovely though at war with Death! the fever has not slain
The gentle spirit in her eyes; she smiles, in spite of pain,
With the old open smile of days when we were one, though twain;
O, God! when shall I know the joy of those dead days again?
The gentle spirit in her eyes; she smiles, in spite of pain,
With the old open smile of days when we were one, though twain;
O, God! when shall I know the joy of those dead days again?
O, Madeline, my own, had I but known what was to be,
Think you that sire or sister should have parted you and me!
This house has never been the same since it was closed to you,
And from my heart I tell you—I have never been untrue.
Think you that sire or sister should have parted you and me!
This house has never been the same since it was closed to you,
And from my heart I tell you—I have never been untrue.
O Madeline, my own, if God should take you from me now,
The brand upon the brow of Cain would burn into my brow.
Sisterhood is a sacred bond not lightly to be broken
Or cast aside, for Father's pride, like a mere lover's token.
The brand upon the brow of Cain would burn into my brow.
Sisterhood is a sacred bond not lightly to be broken
Or cast aside, for Father's pride, like a mere lover's token.
O Madeline, my own, if God should listen to my pray'r,
I will never leave you, never,—as I hope for Heaven, I swear.
O Madeline, come back, come back! 'tis I am calling you—
Your sister, darling Maggie; in my heart I have been true.
I will never leave you, never,—as I hope for Heaven, I swear.
O Madeline, come back, come back! 'tis I am calling you—
Your sister, darling Maggie; in my heart I have been true.
| A Poetry of Exiles | |