University of Virginia Library

Is this the rich, the proud, the beautiful—
The eloquent in council?—He who stood
To-day with the assembled Senators,
And statesmen of his country? He whose voice
Charm'd every ear, whose presence fill'd all eyes,
Whose eloquence subdued and won all hearts,
Except rank enemies, and even from them
Took half the rancour, or bow'd down the brow
With ire and shame, while loud and long applause
Greeted the man whose name they had malign'd,
And rang in deaf'ning peals, proclaiming him
The wisest and most patriotic son
Of his lov'd country. Can this be the man
Whose nod confers an honour, and whose smile
Makes many a bosom beat tumultuously,
Whose ear is greeted oft by the quick sigh
Of smitten beauty, as unconsciously
She watches the fine figure, which enshrines
The richest gems of manly excellence?
If so—why sits he here—so desolate
In this lone brilliant chamber? Wherefore lies
His head upon his hand, so pensively,
While from his bosom steal the long sad sighs
In slow succession. What does his soul lack
Of all that makes life joyous? He has health,
And friends, and honour, riches and applause?
His soul is joyless,—for its early buds
Of hope and love were blighted, while his heart
Was young and ardent, and alive to all
The fervour of young love's idolatry.
Fate tore his treasure from his bleeding breast—
Yet still in its deep sanctuary lives
The bright remembrance of a fair young girl,
Who lov'd him with a maiden's earnest love,
And smil'd so strangely, when he said farewell—
Aye, smiled—while tears lay trembling in the lids
Of those meek azure eyes, which unto him
Were founts of consolation and delight;
She did not say farewell, for she was proud,
And would not have him see her weep for him.
He knew not then how faithfully he lov'd,
Or he had not so tamely let her go.
He knew not that the sinking of his soul,
As that light figure, with the golden curls,
Pass'd from his sight in drooping loveliness,
Was but a prelude to eternal gloom
And loneliness of spirit. Yet, 'tis so!
The world is bright and smiling, but no beam
Of all its joyous things, can reach the cold
Benighted vacuum, in his yearning heart;
And all life's glorious things are mockeries,
For there's no gentle heart to echo back
The plaudits of his fame, and in its joy
Throb with a higher love against his breast—
And he is lonely, mid'st applauding crowds,
And poor, surrounded by life's luxuries.
And where is she—the object of the love,
The wither'd flowers of which so shade his heart,
Rustling at every touch, and chafing still
At every motion, the sore things of life?

I saw in a lone forest—far away,
From all the scenes and friends, her young heart lov'd,
Within an humble cottage, rudely built
And meanly furnish'd, where it seem'd to me
That happiness could find no resting place;
A meekly drooping woman toiling still
As if with mind intent upon her work;
Her cheek was faded, and her high brow mark'd
With long deep lines of care; and sun and wind
Had tarnish'd the pure lilies that once bloom'd
Upon her clear complexion. Even her eye,
Her light-blue speaking eye, droop'd pensively,
As if its long dark lashes sought to hide
A tear, that should—but could not be repress'd.
It seem'd her soul was busy with sweet thoughts
Of far-off scenes, and friends, and joys, and days,
That came not to her exile; and she sigh'd
With that expression of deep hopelessness,
Which no untutor'd heart can comprehend.
But when her little one, with its glad smile
And voice of music, call'd the thrilling name
Of mother, in her ear—she rais'd at once
Her drooping brow, and then the radiant smile
That lighted up her features, and beam'd forth
From the soul's fountain, in those azure eyes,
Reveal'd what treasures of delight and love,
Were frozen up in its deep treasury.

That smile, could he now meet it, might reveal
To the lone statesman in the splendid room
Th' identity of this sad-faded wife,
And the bright joyous girl of seventeen years,
With whom he parted, and on whom his eye
Has never rested since. Oh! it would give
A pang to his strong heart, to meet her now—
Faded and sad, and blighted as she is,—
The slave of an imperious iron-man,
Struggling with pains, and cares, and penury;
Which press so heavily on her bruis'd heart.
That but for Heaven's help, the holy balm
Of meek religion, she had long since sunk
And died, beneath her burden.
Heaven forbid,
That he should ever look upon her more!
Her memory is bright within his heart—
So let it rest.—
And she has learn'd to bear
Her burden of affliction patiently,
And will not suffer her poor heart to dwell
Regretfully with him, who, for slight cause,
Cast her so coldly from him.