The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield In two volumes |
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THE LOZEL. |
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 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
181
THE LOZEL.
With a cold brow unblanched by shame,
A silent triumph of the eye,
A heart that spurns all honest fame,
And glories in its infamy,
Thou hurriest to the work of death,
The deeds that damn the soul the deepest,
And, coiling torture's serpent wreath,
Unstarting from thy visions, sleepest.
A silent triumph of the eye,
A heart that spurns all honest fame,
And glories in its infamy,
Thou hurriest to the work of death,
The deeds that damn the soul the deepest,
And, coiling torture's serpent wreath,
Unstarting from thy visions, sleepest.
Thy demon arts—thy smile that wears
The mask of love but to betray,
Thy crocodile, thy tyrant tears,
That gem thy victim's burning way,
Thy guarded glance, thy watchful care,
Thy passion shrinking at a word,—
All verge to one dark close—despair,
And ruin—destined though deferred.
The mask of love but to betray,
Thy crocodile, thy tyrant tears,
That gem thy victim's burning way,
Thy guarded glance, thy watchful care,
Thy passion shrinking at a word,—
All verge to one dark close—despair,
And ruin—destined though deferred.
And thou canst sit by beauty's side,
And gaze on heaven's best image there,
And glut the rancour of thy pride
In thoughts that have no hope in prayer;
While she—her fair face lightened up
By Love that blooms like Eden's isle,
Drinks madness from thy poison cup,
And greets thee with a seraph smile.
And gaze on heaven's best image there,
And glut the rancour of thy pride
In thoughts that have no hope in prayer;
While she—her fair face lightened up
By Love that blooms like Eden's isle,
Drinks madness from thy poison cup,
And greets thee with a seraph smile.
Yes, thou canst blanch the virgin brow,
And dim the eye whose glance is bliss,
And steal what worlds cannot bestow—
Ay—steal with an Iscariot kiss!
And o'er thy blasted spirit breathe
No thoughts that would the wretch revive—
No pulse thrills through thy heart of death,
Whose throb would bid the ruined live!
And dim the eye whose glance is bliss,
And steal what worlds cannot bestow—
Ay—steal with an Iscariot kiss!
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No thoughts that would the wretch revive—
No pulse thrills through thy heart of death,
Whose throb would bid the ruined live!
But, like the samiel o'er the waste,
Thou leav'st a desert heart behind,
While scorn smiles darkly o'er the Past—
The haunted ruins of the Mind!
And men will hear thee tell of deeds,
Whose lightest meed is years of pain—
A blighted heart that breaks and bleeds,
That ne'er can hope on earth again.
Thou leav'st a desert heart behind,
While scorn smiles darkly o'er the Past—
The haunted ruins of the Mind!
And men will hear thee tell of deeds,
Whose lightest meed is years of pain—
A blighted heart that breaks and bleeds,
That ne'er can hope on earth again.
Amid the maddened revel's mirth,
When ribald tongues and maudlin eyes
Teach apes to scorn the sons of earth
Lost to their birthright in the skies,
Thy guilt becomes a deed of pride,
Thy victim's woe, a theme of jest,
And thou canst woman's love deride,
Who art in woman's ruin blest.
When ribald tongues and maudlin eyes
Teach apes to scorn the sons of earth
Lost to their birthright in the skies,
Thy guilt becomes a deed of pride,
Thy victim's woe, a theme of jest,
And thou canst woman's love deride,
Who art in woman's ruin blest.
Dishonoured and forsaken now
By all she loved in years gone by,
Gloom in her heart, guilt on her brow,
And darkness in her leaden eye,
She can but tread the appointed way
That all must tread on whom the world
Lays its forbidding curse foraye—
From love, hope, heaven and glory hurled.
By all she loved in years gone by,
Gloom in her heart, guilt on her brow,
And darkness in her leaden eye,
She can but tread the appointed way
That all must tread on whom the world
Lays its forbidding curse foraye—
From love, hope, heaven and glory hurled.
Deserted by the righteous throng,
Whose hearts are not so wholly changed
That they would shun the winning wrong,
If, unknown, from the fold they range,
Oh! what is left the victim maid,
Mocked by the vile, shunned by the good,
But sin continued—death delayed—
Blurr'd shame and awful solitude?
Whose hearts are not so wholly changed
That they would shun the winning wrong,
If, unknown, from the fold they range,
Oh! what is left the victim maid,
Mocked by the vile, shunned by the good,
But sin continued—death delayed—
Blurr'd shame and awful solitude?
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Ere life became a bliss to her,
Ere fragrance followed on the flower,
The spoiler came—the branded slur—
The deathless doom of frailty's dower!
And thus, Dark Lozel! thou canst blight
The beautiful—and stain the fair—
And on her bosom pour the night
Of desolation and despair.
Ere fragrance followed on the flower,
The spoiler came—the branded slur—
The deathless doom of frailty's dower!
And thus, Dark Lozel! thou canst blight
The beautiful—and stain the fair—
And on her bosom pour the night
Of desolation and despair.
By all the sorrows of thy lot,
By all thy wrongs in ruin borne,
By all heaven hath and earth has not,
By all thy utter woe and scorn,
The Traitor yet shall feel the force
Of all that long hath tortured thee,
The conscious horror of remorse,
The Ætna of life's agony!
By all thy wrongs in ruin borne,
By all heaven hath and earth has not,
By all thy utter woe and scorn,
The Traitor yet shall feel the force
Of all that long hath tortured thee,
The conscious horror of remorse,
The Ætna of life's agony!
Yes, he shall feel and thou shalt know,
In realms where guilt shall find no gloom,
The peril of inflicted woe,
The anguish of the Liar's doom!
—Thou hearst a voice none else may hear,
It bids thy burning spirit pause;
It bids thee, Infidel! appear
Where angels plead the Victim's cause!
In realms where guilt shall find no gloom,
The peril of inflicted woe,
The anguish of the Liar's doom!
—Thou hearst a voice none else may hear,
It bids thy burning spirit pause;
It bids thee, Infidel! appear
Where angels plead the Victim's cause!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |