 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
LOST AND WON
Broken
She trusted him with her whole true heart,
She trusted him as we trust in Heaven,
Whatever they said, she took his part,
And loved with the love to the noblest given.
She trusted him as we trust in Heaven,
Whatever they said, she took his part,
And loved with the love to the noblest given.
Oh, so deep as the water flows!
Oh, so pure as the lily grows!
But Love it is deeper and purer than they;
Well-a-day!
Oh, so pure as the lily grows!
But Love it is deeper and purer than they;
Well-a-day!
For him she left her father's Hall,
And the happy life she had prized of old,
And with a light heart turned from all
Who once had loved her, and now looked cold.
And the happy life she had prized of old,
And with a light heart turned from all
Who once had loved her, and now looked cold.
Oh, so deep, etc.
And by his side she shared his lot,
And gazed on his face with a tender pride;
Poor they were, yet she murmured not,
But with a smile would her troubles hide.
And gazed on his face with a tender pride;
Poor they were, yet she murmured not,
But with a smile would her troubles hide.
Oh, so deep, etc.
Ah! had she died when her Love was young!
For she trusted him, and he was not true:
Oh that she had died ere her heart was wrung!
For there came a day when this thing she knew.
For she trusted him, and he was not true:
Oh that she had died ere her heart was wrung!
For there came a day when this thing she knew.
Oh, so deep, etc.
There came a day when a beam of light
Searched his soul, and at length revealed
Heart to heart, and she saw him right,
And all the lie he had long concealed.
Searched his soul, and at length revealed
Heart to heart, and she saw him right,
And all the lie he had long concealed.
Oh, so deep, etc.
She read him clear as a printed book,
And never a word to him she said;
But shot at him only a sorrowful look,
As her heart sank in her, cold and dead.
And never a word to him she said;
But shot at him only a sorrowful look,
As her heart sank in her, cold and dead.
Oh, so deep, etc.
Broken in faith and heart and mind,
Yet no one knew it, but only he,
For she was true to her womankind,
And no one felt it, but only she.
Yet no one knew it, but only he,
For she was true to her womankind,
And no one felt it, but only she.
Oh, so deep, etc.
She turned her from all joy and mirth,
In wifely patience silent, pale,
And cared no more for a thing on earth,
But that dead love of her life to wail.
In wifely patience silent, pale,
And cared no more for a thing on earth,
But that dead love of her life to wail.
313
Oh, so deep as the river flows!
Oh, so pure as the lily grows!
But Love it is deeper and purer than they
Well-a-day!
Oh, so pure as the lily grows!
But Love it is deeper and purer than they
Well-a-day!
Parted
Out of his life she passed,
The one gold-thread that was there;
Out of his life at last
She dropt with her burden of care—
How had she ever come there?
The one gold-thread that was there;
Out of his life at last
She dropt with her burden of care—
How had she ever come there?
He was not worthy of love
Such as she gave to him;
And yet, like the heaven above,
She clasped with her light the dim
World that was dear to him.
Such as she gave to him;
And yet, like the heaven above,
She clasped with her light the dim
World that was dear to him.
How could she so cast away
The love that was born of God,
The wealth in her heart that lay,
On a man who only trod
Mean ways that were far from God?
The love that was born of God,
The wealth in her heart that lay,
On a man who only trod
Mean ways that were far from God?
His sorry heart she had taken
For a nature noble and true,
And slow was her trust to be shaken,
Though colder ever he grew,
The closer to him she drew.
For a nature noble and true,
And slow was her trust to be shaken,
Though colder ever he grew,
The closer to him she drew.
And into his life she brought
Some touches of tender grace,
Some gleams of a nobler thought
Redeeming its commonplace—
Had he known his day of grace!
Some touches of tender grace,
Some gleams of a nobler thought
Redeeming its commonplace—
Had he known his day of grace!
She had been to him like a song,
And the song it was silent now,
Or a stream that prattles along
Where the life-roots feebly grow—
And what was to come of him now
And the song it was silent now,
Or a stream that prattles along
Where the life-roots feebly grow—
And what was to come of him now
For he was selfish and cold,
For he was earthly and hard,
For in the guerdon of gold
Only he sought his reward—
Poor soul, so earthly and hard!
For he was earthly and hard,
For in the guerdon of gold
Only he sought his reward—
Poor soul, so earthly and hard!
How could she give him her love,
And he so unworthy of it?
What were the great gods above
Thinking of there where they sit,
When they sent her to fold him in it?
And he so unworthy of it?
What were the great gods above
Thinking of there where they sit,
When they sent her to fold him in it?
Ah! the gods know what they do,
Whether giving or taking away;
They waste no life that is true,
They lose no game that they play,
And cast no blessing away.
Whether giving or taking away;
They waste no life that is true,
They lose no game that they play,
And cast no blessing away.
For as she lay there in death,
Lo! for the first time he saw
All her meek love and her faith,
And there came sorrow and awe
As its great beauty he saw.
Lo! for the first time he saw
All her meek love and her faith,
And there came sorrow and awe
As its great beauty he saw.
Yea, there came sorrow and awe,
As the gods entered his life,
And the great word of the Law
Cut to his heart like a knife,
Seeing the shame of his life.
As the gods entered his life,
And the great word of the Law
Cut to his heart like a knife,
Seeing the shame of his life.
And he lay low on the earth,
When from his side she had passed,
Loathing all gladness and mirth,
Loathing himself now at last,
When from his life she had passed;
When from his side she had passed,
Loathing all gladness and mirth,
Loathing himself now at last,
When from his life she had passed;
Stricken in heart, as he thought
Of the waste of her love and trust,
Of the grace that to him she had brought,
Of the glory he laid in the dust,
When he slighted her love and her trust.
Of the waste of her love and trust,
Of the grace that to him she had brought,
Of the glory he laid in the dust,
When he slighted her love and her trust.
Stricken
Ah me! he said, I do not mourn my loss;
I was not meet for such good company;
Thou all these years didst bear a silent cross,
And it is right thou shouldst no longer be
Comrade to me.
I was not meet for such good company;
Thou all these years didst bear a silent cross,
And it is right thou shouldst no longer be
Comrade to me.
314
I judge not others; few so bad as I:
Enough to know my own poor little heart,
As here in self-abasement now I lie,
And feel that it is best for thee thou art
From me apart.
Enough to know my own poor little heart,
As here in self-abasement now I lie,
And feel that it is best for thee thou art
From me apart.
O love! my love! and yet I wonder how
I dare to call thee love, who was not true;
Yet I did love thee, and I know it now
Too late, too late, when I can only rue
My way with you.
I dare to call thee love, who was not true;
Yet I did love thee, and I know it now
Too late, too late, when I can only rue
My way with you.
I was not always worldly, hard, and cold,
I can remember yet a better day
When love was dearer to my heart than gold;
My God, how could I cast it so away?
Woe worth the day!
I can remember yet a better day
When love was dearer to my heart than gold;
My God, how could I cast it so away?
Woe worth the day!
Ah me! where now the visions of my youth,
The nobleness, the glory of its dreams,
Its purpose high, its eager search for truth,
Its hatred of the thing that only seems,
And falsely gleams?
The nobleness, the glory of its dreams,
Its purpose high, its eager search for truth,
Its hatred of the thing that only seems,
And falsely gleams?
Where the fond hope of holy love and pure,
That, in a cultured home, afar from strife,
With patient service of the meek and poor,
Reckoned to make a great and perfect life
With a sweet wife?
That, in a cultured home, afar from strife,
With patient service of the meek and poor,
Reckoned to make a great and perfect life
With a sweet wife?
Was it all an illusion—but a cloud,
Sun-painted in the morning, far away,
And filled with lark-songs, by and by to shroud
With mist and drizzle all the dismal day,
And mud-strewn way?
Sun-painted in the morning, far away,
And filled with lark-songs, by and by to shroud
With mist and drizzle all the dismal day,
And mud-strewn way?
Nay, but it might have been, it might have been;
'Twas I that failed, not nature that deceives;
Had I been faithful I had surely seen
The better hopes, for which my spirit grieves,
Gathered in sheaves.
'Twas I that failed, not nature that deceives;
Had I been faithful I had surely seen
The better hopes, for which my spirit grieves,
Gathered in sheaves.
They are not false, those golden dreams of youth;
But we are false to them, and fall away
From their high purpose, following the smooth
World-lies that win us empty praise and pay,
And lead astray.
But we are false to them, and fall away
From their high purpose, following the smooth
World-lies that win us empty praise and pay,
And lead astray.
They might have been, ah me! they might have been;
And oh the sorrow to look back, and know
They are not, and our life is poor and mean,
Achieving only loss and empty show,
And shame and woe.
And oh the sorrow to look back, and know
They are not, and our life is poor and mean,
Achieving only loss and empty show,
And shame and woe.
They might have been? A woeful word is this;
I might have been a nobler truer man,
I might have laid up memories of bliss,—
She would have helped, but sunless now and wan
Is life's brief span.
I might have been a nobler truer man,
I might have laid up memories of bliss,—
She would have helped, but sunless now and wan
Is life's brief span.
And looking back, I see the morning glory
Grown dim, and fading 'mid the earthly smoke,
My fond dreams telling now a sorry story
Of thoughts ill-marshalled, and the battle broke
Without a stroke.
Grown dim, and fading 'mid the earthly smoke,
My fond dreams telling now a sorry story
Of thoughts ill-marshalled, and the battle broke
Without a stroke.
315
O heart, that was so rich in noblest wealth
Of love and joy—to think I slighted thee
O broken heart, erewhile so full of health,
How in thy grief my bitter shame I
see! God, pity me.
Of love and joy—to think I slighted thee
O broken heart, erewhile so full of health,
How in thy grief my bitter shame I
see! God, pity me.
Humbled
Why should I care to live another life,
When this is done?
I have not made so much of this first spool
That I should crave for other lint or wool
To be ill-spun:
O heart, my heart, have you not made enough
Of this poor stuff?
When this is done?
I have not made so much of this first spool
That I should crave for other lint or wool
To be ill-spun:
O heart, my heart, have you not made enough
Of this poor stuff?
Would I go on for ever, fain to weave
More of this gear—
More tangled thrums, more broken ends of thought,
More snarled hasps, another hapless knot
Of sorrow and fear?
An everlasting web of life like this,
Would that be bliss?
More of this gear—
More tangled thrums, more broken ends of thought,
More snarled hasps, another hapless knot
Of sorrow and fear?
An everlasting web of life like this,
Would that be bliss?
God help me! if I'm only just to do
As heretofore,
Better into a quiet grave to creep,
And lay me down in peace, and go to sleep
For evermore:
Or better even right-off to be sent
For punishment.
As heretofore,
Better into a quiet grave to creep,
And lay me down in peace, and go to sleep
For evermore:
Or better even right-off to be sent
For punishment.
Yes! I could find some comfort in the thought
Of being scourged,
Were there but hope that this defiling sin
Which mars my life, and taints my heart within
Could be so purged,
And I might live, in virtue of the rod,
The life in God.
Of being scourged,
Were there but hope that this defiling sin
Which mars my life, and taints my heart within
Could be so purged,
And I might live, in virtue of the rod,
The life in God.
It is a coward heart that shrinks from pain,
But not from wrong;
Could I but hope to reach a purer air,
God, I would say, lay on, and do not spare;
Smite hard and strong:
There are no pains that mortal men inherit
Worse than I merit.
But not from wrong;
Could I but hope to reach a purer air,
God, I would say, lay on, and do not spare;
Smite hard and strong:
There are no pains that mortal men inherit
Worse than I merit.
I had a grace that should have made me great;
I had a love
Which should have made me loving, and I thrust
The gift from me, and clave unto the dust,
Till from above
God stretched His hand, and took again to heaven
What He had given.
I had a love
Which should have made me loving, and I thrust
The gift from me, and clave unto the dust,
Till from above
God stretched His hand, and took again to heaven
What He had given.
But oh, if in another truer world
We yet might meet,
As in the days that seem so long ago,
And I this wretched heart of mine might throw
Down at her feet,
And say I wronged you, and I was not true
To God or you!
We yet might meet,
As in the days that seem so long ago,
And I this wretched heart of mine might throw
Down at her feet,
And say I wronged you, and I was not true
To God or you!
Yes! I could live for such a day as that
With patient hope:
Would heaven but grant me opportunity
Of clear repentance which her eye could see,
Then let me drop
Anywhere, out of sight, to live no more
As heretofore.
With patient hope:
Would heaven but grant me opportunity
Of clear repentance which her eye could see,
Then let me drop
Anywhere, out of sight, to live no more
As heretofore.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |