Old Year Leaves Being Old Verses Revised: By H. T. Mackenzie Bell ... New Edition |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. | SCENE V. |
| VI. |
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 | Old Year Leaves |  |
79
SCENE V.
A quiet spot in the garden of Edgar's home. Several months afterwards. Edgar and Alethea.Edgar.
The doctors think that I shall ne'er be well.
They do not say so openly, but still
It is not hard to understand the drift
Of their calm-spoken diplomatic phrases
About ‘much care’ and ‘quiet’ and ‘escape
From English winters to the sunny south;’
And when I asked if my complaint were cured,
They hesitated, hemmed, then, smiling, said,
‘Alleviated were the better term.’
Ah, it is hard to hear a cruel fate
Thus subtly hinted at in civil words
And courteous commonplaces, and to have
One's hopes annihilated in soft tones,
Meant to be pitiful, perchance, but which
Seem by their wily softness but to scorn
And counterfeit a kindness not heart-felt.
'Tis bitter to reflect my roll of years
Will probably be briefer than of those
My comrades—and no better men than I
(And this when life to me was ever sweet).
'Tis bitter to reflect that theirs may be
The bright career of steadfast earnest toil
Towards some right worthy goal, which, gained at last,
Rewards them with a name, while unto me
'Tis given but to spend in listless calm
My few remaining days.
They do not say so openly, but still
It is not hard to understand the drift
Of their calm-spoken diplomatic phrases
About ‘much care’ and ‘quiet’ and ‘escape
From English winters to the sunny south;’
And when I asked if my complaint were cured,
They hesitated, hemmed, then, smiling, said,
‘Alleviated were the better term.’
Ah, it is hard to hear a cruel fate
Thus subtly hinted at in civil words
And courteous commonplaces, and to have
One's hopes annihilated in soft tones,
Meant to be pitiful, perchance, but which
Seem by their wily softness but to scorn
80
'Tis bitter to reflect my roll of years
Will probably be briefer than of those
My comrades—and no better men than I
(And this when life to me was ever sweet).
'Tis bitter to reflect that theirs may be
The bright career of steadfast earnest toil
Towards some right worthy goal, which, gained at last,
Rewards them with a name, while unto me
'Tis given but to spend in listless calm
My few remaining days.
But bitterer still
It is, that I must loose you now, my love,
From cherished vows which we have interchanged.
For 'twere not right that I should link your fate
With mine as now it is, and bring perchance
On others—innocent—the hopeless bane
Of cureless sickness which I feel myself.
Grief is the rule of this our carthly life,
And joy but the exception; wherefore then
Should I expect of joy a greater share
Than is apportioned unto thousands who
Have suffered, still are suffering, or will suffer
As helplessly as I:—and surely too
My mind should be far calmer than is his
Who sowed himself the seeds of his disease,
Whose every pang is now intensified
By keen remorse, and seething in whose soul
No thought save one—the ever-gnawing thought
But for himself what he would now have been.
Yet oh, Alethea, 'tis crushing grief
To lose you, darling, were it not my duty,
My duty thought and prayed about for weeks,
I could not say the word to set you free.
It is, that I must loose you now, my love,
From cherished vows which we have interchanged.
For 'twere not right that I should link your fate
With mine as now it is, and bring perchance
On others—innocent—the hopeless bane
Of cureless sickness which I feel myself.
Grief is the rule of this our carthly life,
And joy but the exception; wherefore then
Should I expect of joy a greater share
Than is apportioned unto thousands who
Have suffered, still are suffering, or will suffer
81
My mind should be far calmer than is his
Who sowed himself the seeds of his disease,
Whose every pang is now intensified
By keen remorse, and seething in whose soul
No thought save one—the ever-gnawing thought
But for himself what he would now have been.
Yet oh, Alethea, 'tis crushing grief
To lose you, darling, were it not my duty,
My duty thought and prayed about for weeks,
I could not say the word to set you free.
Alethea.
The word to set me free! that were indeed
Most difficult to say, for we are bound
Indissolubly:—and though, Edgar dear,
You tell me that for us all hope is o'er
Of earthly union: yet there still remains
A radiant future seen through mists of tears,
Since present life is not our whole existence.
Your name means ‘happy honour,’ and mine own
‘Truth:’—if we live our little span of days
Worthy of such high names, it will be well
82
On your poor face and mark the touch of pain,
Then, though I feel that doubtless you are right
In that you say, it makes me doubly sad
To think the fate that makes you suffer so,
Remorseless and unsatisfied, compels
You thus to blight your life; but if fond love
And sympathy can cheer, you yet may find
Some earthly joy remaining even to you.
| Old Year Leaves | |