 | Poems |  |
14
THE BLIGHT OF LOVE.
Many long years ago, I loved a youth,
Who seemed the soul of honor and of truth—
He charmed my heart with some unholy spell,
He was a serpent, whom I loved so well.
Who seemed the soul of honor and of truth—
He charmed my heart with some unholy spell,
He was a serpent, whom I loved so well.
The blush of girlhood had just ting'd my cheek;
He knew me young—perchance he thought me weak.
'Tis said, he often boasted of his power,
To gather for his own each new-blown flower.
He knew me young—perchance he thought me weak.
'Tis said, he often boasted of his power,
To gather for his own each new-blown flower.
My simple language can not well describe
How first he stood before me in his pride;
His form was cast in beauty's manly mould;
His eyes shot fire, and his hair was gold.
How first he stood before me in his pride;
His form was cast in beauty's manly mould;
His eyes shot fire, and his hair was gold.
15
Fain, fain would I describe to you his glance;
One look enough, to throw me in a trance;
His flute-like voice—ah! from my sleep I woke,
When on mine ear the cadence gently broke.
One look enough, to throw me in a trance;
His flute-like voice—ah! from my sleep I woke,
When on mine ear the cadence gently broke.
A month passed by: he lingered by my side,
Longed for the time, when I should be his bride;
Ah! bitter ending, of that month of years,
A life of sorrow, and a life of tears.
Longed for the time, when I should be his bride;
Ah! bitter ending, of that month of years,
A life of sorrow, and a life of tears.
The scathing truth, like any lightning stroke,
Fell'd me to earth, and my poor heart was broke;
He, frightened, turned and left me, with my woe,
For, in my wrath, I sternly bade him go.
Fell'd me to earth, and my poor heart was broke;
He, frightened, turned and left me, with my woe,
For, in my wrath, I sternly bade him go.
I've never loved again; for there, and then,
All my faith vanished in the truth of men.
Of that short month, 'tis seldom that I speak,
And to forget my youth, in vain I seek.
All my faith vanished in the truth of men.
Of that short month, 'tis seldom that I speak,
And to forget my youth, in vain I seek.
| Poems | |