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Morning Glories :

Second Edition :
  
  
  
  
  

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“THE WOUNDED HEART.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

“THE WOUNDED HEART.”

Through the long night and weary day,
A lover sat and thus did meditate,
His burdened soul poured forth a plaintive lay,
With tearful eyes he wept o'er his unhappy state,
To God he lifts his trembling voice and cries,
Had'st thou seen fit upon me to bestow,
The poet's gift of verse, or thought it wise,
That I to others might make known my woe.
Dear God, methinks I'd have the power to wake
The immortal Shakespeare who would seize his pen,
And Cullen Bryant a defence would make,
To more securely hold his place with men.
The silent air is ladened with my grief,
It seems to wait in pity on my prayer;
O God, Thou who alone can'st send relief,
Desert me not to vain hope and despair.

87

Ah, is the idol gone which I adore,
Forced from my side by a relentless fate;
Her bright smile gone, fled from me evermore,
Which e'er was wont my grief to disipate?
As like a cruel wolf would snatch away
The tender lamb from bleating mother's side,
Disconsolate and lone I wait to-day,
And mourn my life's sole star, my love, my pride.
Strong hope and love doth yet contend,
Though crushed and bleeding still upon the field,
Dost heaven bear witness, yet no mercy lend?
To cruel fate must hope and love then yield?
And will the future in its bright beyond,
For recompense no nuptial bonds bestow,
Nor grant my dearest wish so true, so fond,
For this extreme of woe?
Ah, sweet day of the past that made us one,
That passed so like a pleasant dream;
My joys are fled as vessels that have gone
A wreck on time's tempestuous stream.
I only ask this little question why,
When fate his cruel, cruel work begun;
Did not let death's ne'er-failing arrow fly
And smite me then his work were done.