The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
 |
| I. |
|
|
TO LILLA, WEEPING. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
|
|
|
|
| II. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
87
TO LILLA, WEEPING.
Yes, thou hast cause to weep, lone maiden!
Those dark and drooping lids are laden
With sorrow's bitterest tears;
Thine eye hath lost its wonted brightness,—
Thy cheek its glow—thy step its lightness,—
No smile thine aspect cheers.
Those dark and drooping lids are laden
With sorrow's bitterest tears;
Thine eye hath lost its wonted brightness,—
Thy cheek its glow—thy step its lightness,—
No smile thine aspect cheers.
Think not of him whose arts bereaved thee
Of peace and joy—whose words deceived thee
In passion's witching tone;
Although thy kindred turn and shun thee,
And cast their cruel scorn upon thee,
For errors scarce thine own.
Of peace and joy—whose words deceived thee
In passion's witching tone;
Although thy kindred turn and shun thee,
And cast their cruel scorn upon thee,
For errors scarce thine own.
I, too, have wept o'er many a token
Of hope, and love, and friendship broken,
Which wrung me to the core:—
Fain would I charm thy soul from sadness,
And bring the light of guiltless gladness
Around thee, as before.
Of hope, and love, and friendship broken,
Which wrung me to the core:—
Fain would I charm thy soul from sadness,
And bring the light of guiltless gladness
Around thee, as before.
One heart hath never yet dissembled,
But with that hopeless feeling trembled,
Which pride could not subdue;
And now, when ready tongues upbraid thee,—
When all abandon and degrade thee,
That heart can still be true.
But with that hopeless feeling trembled,
Which pride could not subdue;
And now, when ready tongues upbraid thee,—
When all abandon and degrade thee,
That heart can still be true.
88
Come, let us leave the world behind us,
And where its malice may not find us,
Seek out a home of rest;
There shall my own untired devotion
Calm down each memory-stirred emotion
That lingers in thy breast.
And where its malice may not find us,
Seek out a home of rest;
There shall my own untired devotion
Calm down each memory-stirred emotion
That lingers in thy breast.
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |