University of Virginia Library

Nay, fear me not, beloved; I am here
With other thoughts than vengeance. Turn not thus
Thy dear face from me. Henry, I am here
To soothe and comfort thee, now that thou art
Deserted of all else, as if thou wert
Indeed, a pestilent and loathsome thing
Fit only for corruption, and the worms.
(I cannot fear infection; death to me
Is all too slow in coming. Oh, that God
Would give me thy disease, and let thee live!)
Thou now hast need of me. I will remain
And serve, and aid thee, and administer
All healing medicines; I will bathe thy head
With grateful acids, and thy burning hands
In pure cold water. I will bring thee food
Such as thy state requires, and give thee drink,
And sit beside thy pillow all night long
To watch thy breath, with spirit gushing forth
In tears, and ardent prayers. I will do all
That woman's never never weary hand
And all-enduring spirit, can perform.
When thou shalt be recover'd, I will go
Back to my hiding-place. If thou wilt then
But smile, and say I thank thee, Isabel—
Those words should lie upon my broken heart
A blessed balm leaf; and that precious smile
Should live, a glory on my weary nights,
A rainbow on the storm-cloud of my life,
To each, a beautiful, a sweet relief.

Thou art a man, and canst not comprehend
The heart of woman, which is like a harp
Strung, and attun'd to most exquisite bliss,
But which awakes not, till the master hand
Of Love is laid upon it. Then her soul
Is full of melody, and every pulse
That stirs her bosom, is an echoing thrill
Of that one tender lay, and if the strain
Be bliss or agony, or life or death,
It mingles with her soul. Identity
By her is quite forgotten; she exists
And acts, but for the idol of her love.

I will not chide thee, but I must complain:
Now, that thou can'st not fly me, I must breathe
The story of my love, my worshipping,
Which of itself is truth unchangeable.

I was a happy girl, careless of heart,
And full of music as a warbling bird,
Which sings because its soul is melody
And floats out on its breathing. Every bliss
That young hearts take delight in was my own.

Thy voice came to my heart, the breath of life
Thrilling its fibres with a living bliss,
And pulsing through my frame a tenderness
Of which thou wert the soul. Thenceforth I knew
No life, apart from thine, no joy, no hope,
No happiness, that centred, not in thee.
'Twere vain to say I lov'd thee, for my soul
My whole existence was all full of thee,
And where thou wert was bliss. I had no aim
In life, but to promote thy happiness,—
Then I became a woman, and resign'd
The pride of girlhood, bowing meekly down
To woman's destiny, with glowing heart,
Blessing the Wisdom that ordain'd her lot,
Her blissful lot, to love and serve the man
To whom her heart does homage.
Earnestly
My kindred warn'd me that I should not wed
A haughty and ambitious man, like thee.
But what they deem'd thy faults, were in mine eyes
High excellencies. That a heart so proud,
So stern, so independent of the world,
Could worship me, a weak and simple girl,
And deem the treasure of my heart a prize
Worth suing for, awoke my gratitude,
And seem'd a source of pride. For thee, for thee,
I threw aside the blessed coronet
Of Home's enduring jewels, and put on
The bridal ring instead. And I went forth
In blissful confidence of happiness,
With thee, and only thee.—To me thou wert
The cup of life, brim-full of happiness,
And my heart bathing in the blessed flood
Ask'd nothing more of heaven.
Shall I say on?—
Oh Henry! Henry!—Were it possible
For language to express the bitterness
That came upon my spirit, like the flood
To the primeval world, extinguishing
Beauty, and life, and spreading o'er the waste,
A cold and wiltering shroud. Could'st thou have seen
The livid, corses, and the daggled flowers,
That lay beneath the deluge of my grief,
Thou might'st perhaps have learn'd to understand
How desolate a woman's heart can be.
Death had been welcome then, for life to me
Was but a light within a sepulchre,
Showing the death and darkness brooding there.
I could have borne thy coldness; could have borne
The careless glance, and the indifferent tone,
The long protracted absence, and the death
Of all my joys in thee. I could have borne
Almost to see another in thine arms,
But to be doubted—Ah, that thou should'st doubt
My love, my truth, my honour! Oh, that God
Had stricken me from being, while my heart
Was happy in thy love, and confidence!

There is not in the phial of Heaven's wrath,
In the black chalice of infernal ire,
Or in the more ingeniously mix'd draught
That human malice pours, a drop so keen,
So deadly bitter to a woman's soul,
As the suspicion of her purity
Utter'd by him she loves. It kills the heart;
It wounds the spirit, it destroys the soul!
She is suspected. Wherefore should she live?
Why cherish virtue? Why be innocent?

Oh man belov'd!—Could'st thou but feel the weight
That presses like a leaden monument
Upon the breast of her thou dost suspect,
Thou would'st not lightly taunt her with a crime
Including all of guilt, hypocrisy,
Falsehood, and baseness, that the human heart
Vile as it is, can practise, or conceive.

A woman once suspected is undone,
Thrown from her confidence in God, and man,
For wherefore—wherefore—should the innocent
Be doom'd to wear the heaviest of all chains,
And drink the keenest of all nauseous draughts?
There is no peace within her broken heart;
No joy, in all the glorious world around.
Even the consciousness of innocence,
That blessed solace of all other woes,
To her heart-sickness is a bitter balm.
And when she kneels in prayer, though she lift up
The offering of a broken contrite heart;
Hands, spotless as an infant's, and sad eyes
Wet, with the holy dew of piety,
She hears the world hiss forth “The hypocrite!”
And Christianity sigh forth a prayer
That she—the Magdalen—may be forgiven.
The bitter fountain of her heart is stirr'd,
And quenches out devotion's sacred fire.
A shadow walks forever at her side,
With blackness tinging all her works, and ways.
Though as she wanders weeping through the world,
She strews her pathway with the holiest gifts
Of charity, and good-will unto man,
Even those that gather up the precious flowers
Suspect a lurking mildew in the leaves
And almost fear contagion.
Dost thou weep?
There is no balsam even in thy tears,
To heal my spirit wounds. Not the whole flood
Of the vast ocean, and the rain of Heaven,
Can e'er efface the record of my shame.
Yet I am innocent! And pure of heart
As when an infant in my mother's arms.

No,—tell me not of hope. To such as me
She points but to the grave, and that pure world
Beyond its precincts, where the wicked cease
From troubling, and the weary are at rest.

Oh, speak it not! I cannot live with thee
And love thee, and be happy, for my heart
Is like a broken vase. 'Tis vain to pour
Hope, love, or consolation into it;
They cannot heal it, and will trickle forth,
Mix'd with the cankering dregs that rankle there,
In hot corrosive drops.
Oh no! Oh no!
Thou'st wounded—it is past thy power to heal
And we are both undone.