Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems | ||
CANTO IV.
THE RETRIBUTION.
How fair the gardens grow,—
Yet burning Desolation
Is fierce and near below!—
While straying 'mid the vines and flowers.
We rarely pause to think,
How close this Beauty presses on
Destruction's awful brink!
Like flowers from hot-house brought,
We oft forget their blandest smile
Conceals some burning thought
Of pain, remorse or envy,
The surface hid beneath,—
Whose hearts are filled with death!
And outwardly serene,
We say “'t is good;”—but had we power
To lift the veil between,
And see how passion's lava
Is gathering in the breast,
While Justice, like a hidden stream
That cannot be suppressed,
Is wearing channels, day by day,
And coming nigh and nigher,—
How we should warn the world to flee
From sin's volcanic fire!
Her scales reach every heart;
The action and the motive,
She weigheth each apart;
Can 'scape her penalty;—
Oh! sore the Retribution,
Poor Alice, laid on thee.
A law that men endite;
But still, in her own mind she saw
The Law in purer light;
Had she not pined for Beauty,
With Envy's selfish eye,
And wed a man she did not love
For wealth, and station high?
Not with that pure, heart-love,
A true wife for her husband feels,
Kindled from heaven above:—
To wed a man one does not love,
What suffering to incur!
Her husband loved not her:—
To love with constancy;
When dazzled by her beauty,
And she a novelty,
He loved,—but soon the holy charm
Had lost its light and power,
And he would leave her lone and sad
For some new toy or flower.
Feels, with the deepest pain,
And often strove, by sweetest wiles,
To lure his heart again;—
She wore the colours he admired,
The jewels he had given,
And met him with a face of smiles
Even when her heart was riven.
How she her bird had freed,
And how it nestled in her neck—
He only cried—“Indeed!
Where is the paper? 'T is the day
To learn whose racer wins;—
And then, to-night, with that new star,
The Opera begins.”
Hers centred in a home
Where all was truth and tenderness,
And none but dear ones come;
His joy was found on Pleasure's tide,
With gay companions nigh,
And should they sink, it mattered not,
If he but held a buoy;—
The motto graven on his seal
Was, “I—and only I.”
The loving Alice pined;—
Had Heaven her lot appointed
She might have been resigned;
But 't was the bitter chalice
Which she herself had filled,—
It was the deadly Upas plant—
Her Envy had distilled.
Her Husband marked it not,—
Her flowing hair might sweetly curl,
—Its colour he forgot;
Her face was like Belinda's fair,
And yet he turned away
And gazed, and praised some painted thing
That flaunted in the play.
Was so unused to grief,
Some change would bring relief;
But days, weeks—months, are passing by,
And still her chains grow stronger;
She felt her sorrow was so great
She could not bear it longer.
Would with her dreamings come,
She strove to drive him from her mind—
But he was near her home,
And all she loved and sighed to see,—
As well forget her prayer
As him who often by her side
Had knelt that right to share.
And she to him was fair,
But now, with all her Beauty,
No one for her would care;
Even her bright hopes had fled,
She wished but for her mother
To hold her throbbing head.
Burst on the eastern sky,
The high roofs seemed like leaden weights
Upon her lifted eye,—
And when, as blesséd evening came,
She looked towards the west,
She felt as if the cold, hard walls
Were closing round her breast!
Of the last dying scene,—
Oh, what despairing thoughts arose,
With tears and prayers between!
The last pang came—she gave one shriek,
As though her heart-strings broke,—
The breathless girl—awoke!
Beneath that old elm tree,
With face of ashy pallor,
Beside her on his knee;—
“What ails thee, Alice, dearest?
Thy cry was strange and wild;”
She laid her head upon his breast,
And wept as weeps a child.
She told him all her woes,
From her Saratoga sorrows,
To that dark Vision's close:
She said—“My heart was wrong and weak,
How could I be so dull!
But now my dream has taught me this,
The loved are beautiful.
My foolishness and pride!”
—He whispered he forgave her all—
And something more beside;
I could not hear distinctly,
For song began to flow,
The joyous bird was over-head,
And lovers speak so low.
Put on his Winter grey—
While yet the melted rainbow,
'Mid forest shadow lay,
And trees were flushed with glory
More rich than flowers of May—
Though very late the season
For such a grand array,
It seemed as Earth kept on her robes
For Festival display—
But on the Friday after
Had you in Woodburn village
Enquired for Alice Ray—
They would have smiled and said—“She now
Is Mrs. Arthur Gray!”
“Thou shalt keep a fast unto me, in the end of the year, when thou hast gathered in thy labors out of the field,” was the command of God to his chosen people. The “Thanksgiving-Day,” established soon after the settlement of New England, by the Pilgrim Fathers, obeys this requisition of joyful gratitude, and seems the natural out-pouring of thankfulness for the abundance which in autumn is gathered into the overflowing garners of America. From New England the custom has been gradually extending itself, and last year the Thanksgiving-Day was kept in twenty-one, out of the twenty-nine States. In a few more years, we hope and trust the day will become a national Jubilee. Though the appointment must be always made by the State authorities, yet this might be done in concert, and a particular day—the last Thursday in November,—might be the day in every State and Territory. Then, though the members of the same family might be too far separated to meet around one festive board, they would have the gratification of knowing that all were enjoying the blessings of the day. From the St. Johns to the Rio Grande, from the Atlantic to the Pacific border, the telegraph of human happiness would move every heart to rejoice simultaneously, and render grateful thanks to God for the blessings showered on our beloved country.
Three hours ; or, the vigil of love : and other poems | ||