 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
174
IN VAIN.
Heavily the winter rain
Plashes on the broken pane,—
On the hearth the embers die,
And the night-wind, fitfully
Entering at the shattered door,
Blows the ashes round the floor,
While in mortal strife with pain
Lies she who has lived in vain.
Plashes on the broken pane,—
On the hearth the embers die,
And the night-wind, fitfully
Entering at the shattered door,
Blows the ashes round the floor,
While in mortal strife with pain
Lies she who has lived in vain.
She was fated. As a child
No fond love upon her smiled,
For the hand that would have been
Strong to shield from woe and sin,
And the eyes whose loving light
Would have led her steps aright,
Since her birth in dust have lain,—
Therefore hath she lived in vain.
Harsh reproof and unkind words
Jarred her spirit's tender chords,—
Angry glance and threatening frown
Darkened childhood's gladness down,—
Nothing gentle, kind or good
Smiled upon her womanhood,—
Burdened sore were heart and brain,—
Is it strange she lived in vain?
No fond love upon her smiled,
For the hand that would have been
Strong to shield from woe and sin,
And the eyes whose loving light
Would have led her steps aright,
Since her birth in dust have lain,—
Therefore hath she lived in vain.
Harsh reproof and unkind words
Jarred her spirit's tender chords,—
175
Darkened childhood's gladness down,—
Nothing gentle, kind or good
Smiled upon her womanhood,—
Burdened sore were heart and brain,—
Is it strange she lived in vain?
Love came with his angel air,
Breathing vows as false as fair,—
And his wreath with promise rife
Crowned her as a worshipped wife,—
But the heart she trusted in
Turned aside to guilt and sin,
Leaving on her life their stain—
Wonder not she lived in vain!
Breathing vows as false as fair,—
And his wreath with promise rife
Crowned her as a worshipped wife,—
But the heart she trusted in
Turned aside to guilt and sin,
Leaving on her life their stain—
Wonder not she lived in vain!
Grief and poverty and care
Marred her face, once young and fair,—
Toil and want and sorrow's storm
Bowed her head and bent her form,
And her heart, a hopeless bark,
Drifted through life's tempest dark,
Till at last, in want and pain,
Dies she who has lived in vain.
Marred her face, once young and fair,—
Toil and want and sorrow's storm
Bowed her head and bent her form,
And her heart, a hopeless bark,
Drifted through life's tempest dark,
Till at last, in want and pain,
Dies she who has lived in vain.
No one cares that thus she dies;
No fond friend with tearful eyes
O'er her pillow hovereth,
Watching her uneven breath,
Holding her pale purpling hand,
Counting life's last wasting sand.
Mourn her requiem, wailing rain!
She is dead who lived in vain!
No fond friend with tearful eyes
O'er her pillow hovereth,
Watching her uneven breath,
176
Counting life's last wasting sand.
Mourn her requiem, wailing rain!
She is dead who lived in vain!
Life has been all dark and chill,—
Let her rest be dim and still;
Lay her in a shadowed glade
Where no sunbeam ever strayed,—
Place, mayhap, a simple stone
By her grave so sadly lone,—
Trace thereon in letters plain,
“Here she lies who lived in vain!”
Let her rest be dim and still;
Lay her in a shadowed glade
Where no sunbeam ever strayed,—
Place, mayhap, a simple stone
By her grave so sadly lone,—
Trace thereon in letters plain,
“Here she lies who lived in vain!”
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |