 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
185
THE PERJURED BRIDE.
This golden band! it weighs like lead!
Unclasp it from my aching head!
Take off the veil of silver light,—
Its dazzling waves oppress my sight!
Ah me! methinks my weary brow
Is scarce relieved or lightened now!—
Quick—quick! the jewelled zone unwreathe!
It binds my heart! I cannot breathe!
Oh! loose my robe!—each gorgeous fold
That glitters on my joyless breast,
Seems like a serpent—bright but cold—
It chills my life-blood!—let me rest!
Take from my throat this hateful chain!—
So! I am free!—I breathe again!
Free did I say?—oh! mockery wild
As e'er on frenzied woman smiled!
I do but sport in maniac glee
With my own maddening misery!
Free did I say? Have I not given
Myself—my heart—thought—feeling—will,
To fetters that may ne'er be riven,
Until that heart's last throb is still?
Have I not spoken words, whose power
Is as an adamantine chain,—
Linking me from this fatal hour
To falsehood, sorrow, guilt, and pain?
Unclasp it from my aching head!
Take off the veil of silver light,—
Its dazzling waves oppress my sight!
Ah me! methinks my weary brow
Is scarce relieved or lightened now!—
Quick—quick! the jewelled zone unwreathe!
It binds my heart! I cannot breathe!
Oh! loose my robe!—each gorgeous fold
That glitters on my joyless breast,
Seems like a serpent—bright but cold—
It chills my life-blood!—let me rest!
Take from my throat this hateful chain!—
So! I am free!—I breathe again!
Free did I say?—oh! mockery wild
As e'er on frenzied woman smiled!
I do but sport in maniac glee
With my own maddening misery!
186
Myself—my heart—thought—feeling—will,
To fetters that may ne'er be riven,
Until that heart's last throb is still?
Have I not spoken words, whose power
Is as an adamantine chain,—
Linking me from this fatal hour
To falsehood, sorrow, guilt, and pain?
Ah no! 'twas not the gem-lit zone
That weighed upon my heart like stone!
'Twas not the gaudy golden chain
That clasped so tight my throbbing brain!
And not amid my robe's light fold
The serpent's icy rings were rolled!
That load—the load of woe and sin—
That poison-fang are all within!
Oh God! but to recall the past—
But one, one hour, the dread—the last!
To know once more the power to choose
What then I madly dared refuse!
That weighed upon my heart like stone!
'Twas not the gaudy golden chain
That clasped so tight my throbbing brain!
And not amid my robe's light fold
The serpent's icy rings were rolled!
That load—the load of woe and sin—
That poison-fang are all within!
Oh God! but to recall the past—
But one, one hour, the dread—the last!
To know once more the power to choose
What then I madly dared refuse!
I saw them all, ere yet the vow
Had seared my soul and shamed my brow:
Beautiful in its pure repose,
My own, my early home arose;
The blessed cot—its garden bowers—
Its lowly lattice, laced with flowers—
Oh! softly round it stole the breeze,
Like music through the murmuring trees—
And radiant still to memory's eye,
The silver rill went singing by.
Had seared my soul and shamed my brow:
187
My own, my early home arose;
The blessed cot—its garden bowers—
Its lowly lattice, laced with flowers—
Oh! softly round it stole the breeze,
Like music through the murmuring trees—
And radiant still to memory's eye,
The silver rill went singing by.
There Innocence, and Hope, and Truth,
Linked with the guileless Love of youth—
A holy band—did smiling rise,
And woo me with their angel eyes!
Soft as a whispering waterfall,
I heard their sweet, imploring call!—
I heard, and heeded not! I turned,
With heart that wildly, proudly burned;—
A haughtier vision met my sight—
A palace-hall of dazzling light;
And on its couch of luxury rare,
Dishonour sat with jewelled hair!
And from its festal-board the while,
Did golden-fettered Misery
Smile on me with a mocking smile!
What were their gems and gold to me?
Alas! within the lustrous braid,
That garlanded that drooping head,
So rich the diamond's lightning-play,
That I was blinded by the ray!
I did not mark the weary eye—
I did not hear the hopeless sigh;
And when that smile—so strange—so cold—
Beamed from a forehead brightly crowned,
I only saw the gleaming gold—
And not the wasted brow it bound!
Linked with the guileless Love of youth—
A holy band—did smiling rise,
And woo me with their angel eyes!
Soft as a whispering waterfall,
I heard their sweet, imploring call!—
I heard, and heeded not! I turned,
With heart that wildly, proudly burned;—
A haughtier vision met my sight—
A palace-hall of dazzling light;
And on its couch of luxury rare,
Dishonour sat with jewelled hair!
And from its festal-board the while,
Did golden-fettered Misery
Smile on me with a mocking smile!
What were their gems and gold to me?
188
That garlanded that drooping head,
So rich the diamond's lightning-play,
That I was blinded by the ray!
I did not mark the weary eye—
I did not hear the hopeless sigh;
And when that smile—so strange—so cold—
Beamed from a forehead brightly crowned,
I only saw the gleaming gold—
And not the wasted brow it bound!
Near and more near the vision grew;
My fair home faded from my view—
High swelled the syren-song of pride;
Mournful and slow,—receding still,
Love's pleading accent faltered—died!
I triumphed in my wayward will—
I took that form with glittering crown—
I pressed that splendid couch of down—
Flung from my heart the Pure, the Fair!—
And clasped a golden fetter there!
My fair home faded from my view—
High swelled the syren-song of pride;
Mournful and slow,—receding still,
Love's pleading accent faltered—died!
I triumphed in my wayward will—
I took that form with glittering crown—
I pressed that splendid couch of down—
Flung from my heart the Pure, the Fair!—
And clasped a golden fetter there!
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |