University of Virginia Library

O hers was not such love as worldings feel;
But an intense and passionate devotion,
Pure as an infant thought, was in her heart.
Yet she had none of woman's charms; the low
And gentle voice, the full bright lip, the eye
All light and beauty,—these were not for her.
But on her spirit genius poured its rays,
And in her eye the pride of intellect
Was visibly enthroned; yet proved she not
Herself a mere, mere woman, when she gave
Her heart to man's control? No, he was one
Whom not to love had almost been a crime:
It seemed that Heaven had formed him to be loved
E'en as itself was worshipped: well did she
Obey its will; he was the life, the soul
Of her existence; and she poured forth all
The richest fullness of her untouched heart
As incense on his shrine, e'en though she knew
Its sweetness would be wasted. Hopelessly
She gave it; for she knew he looked on her
With kindness, friendship, everything but love.
And yet she murmured not; could she repine
When she received a brother's tenderness?
She turned from scenes of gayety: for there
She could not think of him; and gifted ones
Oft sought her love as 'twere a precious thing.
But how could one who worshipped the bright sun,
Pay the same homage to the meaner stars?
She gave herself to loneliness; a life
Of self-devotion to her hopeless love
Was dearer to her than all earthly joy.

At length the hour she long had looked for came,
And he was wed. She knew the very hour
That gave him to another. It were vain
To paint the fearful conflict of her heart;
She knew he would be wretched if he dreamed
Of her deep sorrow; and this gave her strength
To conquer woman's weakness. When she next
Beheld him he was near his youthful bride:
Calmly she met his proffered hand, and looked
With smiles on her bright face, and though her cheek
Was deadly pale, yet her voice faltered not.
Her course through life was marked out by the hand
Of changeless destiny; her days were past
In painful study; she explored the paths
Of science with a sad delight; for one
Faint hope yet lingered, that, in after years,
When men should breathe her name in tones of praise,
He would remember her with thoughts of pride.
Yet she was not unhappy; she had taught
His wife to love her, and the innocent face
Of his fair child oft rested on her heart,
While its soft arms were twined about her neck
With all an infant's fondness.
Years passed on,
And long ere she had reached life's middle course,
Sorrow amid the lone one's dark brown locks
Had mingled silver, while her sunken cheek
And wasted figure told a mournful tale
Of the heart's struggle. Well had she subdued
Each rebel thought; her eye no longer quailed
In anguish to behold his tenderness
Bestowed upon another; for she gave
To his fair child the fullness of that love
She dared not yield to him. Alas! alas!
And did she think the heart would thus be swayed
E'en as she listed; that her will could change
The course of its affections? vain deceit!
E'en as the breath of winter, while it binds
The mountain torrent in its icy chains,
Checks not the current which still rushes on
Beneath its frozen surface, so the strong,
Resistless energy of mind may stay
The outward struggles of the restless soul,
But cannot reach its inmost depths, where still
The waves of passion moan. Too soon she knew
How much she was deceived. Death came, but not
To her who waited him; the grief-worn frame
Was all too mean a prey for him; he seized
The gentle wife and mother; she whose life
Had been a fairy tale.

No selfish thought
Was in the bosom of the lonely one,
As, bending o'er the bed of death, she wept,
Mingling her tears with his; but when she found
That still he sought for comfort in her kindness,
E'en when the smile revisited his lip,
What marvel if within her breast awoke
Again the sweet delusions of young hope.
The passionate feelings of his youth were gone;
And now he turned with tranquil tenderness
To her affection, e'en as one will pause,
Amid the weary vanities of life,
To hear some half-forgotten melody
That charmed his childish hours; but ah! the heart
Which bore so well with sorrow could not brook
The fullness of such joy; and as the flower
May bide the pelting of the storm, to die
Beneath the very sun that gave it life,
Thus did she wither. But how did she shrink
To meet the death she once had sought; how weep
To check again the love but half subdued?
Thus months and weeks passed onward, until he
Who, in her hour of youth and bloom, had turned
In coldness from her love, now sought for it
As 'twere his very being. Who can speak
The anguish of her spirit, as with sick
And swelling heart she gasped: “It is too late!”
As the worn traveller amid the wilds
Of burning Araby, o'erspent with toil,
Falls ere he reach the brink of that pure wave
Which proffers life to his parched lip, thus she
Found joy within her grasp but when she knew
It was her last, her dying hour. She died—
Yet as a day of storms will ofttimes sink
With a rich burst of sunlight at its close,
Thus did the rays of happiness illume
Her parting spirit.