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 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
343
THE FORSAKEN.
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE.
“Do any thing but love;
Or if thou lovest, and art a woman,
Hide thy love from him whom thou dost worship.”
Or if thou lovest, and art a woman,
Hide thy love from him whom thou dost worship.”
She was the scion of a gentle race,
And wealth and beauty were her queenly dower;
Her form was fashioned in the mould of grace,
And many owned her love-inspiring power;—
On one alone, with breast devoid of guile,
The maiden flung the sunlight of her smile
And wealth and beauty were her queenly dower;
Her form was fashioned in the mould of grace,
And many owned her love-inspiring power;—
On one alone, with breast devoid of guile,
The maiden flung the sunlight of her smile
Perchance some daughter of a brighter clime
Had fired his bosom with a quenchless flame;
Suspicion hinted that a life of crime
Was darkly ended by a death of shame;
And Hope no longer, to her trusting heart,
Could dreams of bliss and happiness impart.
Had fired his bosom with a quenchless flame;
Suspicion hinted that a life of crime
Was darkly ended by a death of shame;
And Hope no longer, to her trusting heart,
Could dreams of bliss and happiness impart.
The maiden stood, in bridal robes arrayed,
On a lone rock that overhung the wave;
The breeze of evening with her ringlets played,
And to her cheek a glow of beauty gave.
She knew within her breast, convulsed with pain,
That peace could never rear a shrine again.
On a lone rock that overhung the wave;
The breeze of evening with her ringlets played,
And to her cheek a glow of beauty gave.
She knew within her breast, convulsed with pain,
That peace could never rear a shrine again.
The thunder rolled along the vaulted sky,
The murky cloud sent forth a pinion flashing,—
The sea-bird blended its appalling cry
With the wild music of the billow dashing,—
But trembled not her finely moulded form
While holding converse with the angry storm!
The murky cloud sent forth a pinion flashing,—
The sea-bird blended its appalling cry
With the wild music of the billow dashing,—
But trembled not her finely moulded form
While holding converse with the angry storm!
344
Her hollow cheek had lost its rose-like red,
A broken heart, she knew, could be healed never;
Far down, where Ocean sepulchres his dead,
She longed to still its fitful throbs forever,
And wildly thought her long-lost mariner
Would slumber sweetly side by side with her.
A broken heart, she knew, could be healed never;
Far down, where Ocean sepulchres his dead,
She longed to still its fitful throbs forever,
And wildly thought her long-lost mariner
Would slumber sweetly side by side with her.
At times she called upon her absent lover,
But to her voice the winds and waves replied;
She knew that pain and sorrow would be over
By one wild plunge beneath the yeasty tide:
Her funeral dirge the tempest-spirit sung,—
Of death regardless, from the rock she sprung!
But to her voice the winds and waves replied;
She knew that pain and sorrow would be over
By one wild plunge beneath the yeasty tide:
Her funeral dirge the tempest-spirit sung,—
Of death regardless, from the rock she sprung!
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |