The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed :: :: University of Virginia Library

“November 26.—Heard of the death of poor Morton. If ever man died of love, it was Edward Morton. Since his death a small collection of poems, written by him at different periods of his life, has been put into my hands; which I shall insert from time to time, with the signature ‘E. M.’”—The Etonian, vol. i. pp. 313, 374.

I.

There was a voice—a foolish voice—
In my heart's summer echoing through me;
It bade me hope, it bade rejoice,
And still its sounds were precious to me;
But thou hast plighted that deep vow,
And it were sin to love thee now!

I will not love thee! I am taught
To shun the dream on which I doated,
And tear my soul from every thought
On which its dearest vision floated;
And I have prayed to look on thee
As coldly as thou dost on me.

Alas! the love indeed is gone,
But still I feel its melancholy;
And the deep struggle, long and lone,
That stifled all my youthful folly.
Took but away the guilt of sin,
And left me all its pain within.

264

Adieu! if thou hadst seen the heart—
The silly heart thou wert beguiling,
Thou wouldst not have inflamed the smart
With all thy bright unconscious smiling;
Thou wouldst not so have fanned the blaze
That grew beneath those quiet rays!

Nay, it was well!—for smiles like this
Delayed at least my bosom's fever!
Nay, it was well, since hope and bliss
Were fleeting quickly, and for ever,
To snatch them as they passed away,
And meet the anguish all to-day!

II.

I do not weep; the grief I feel
Is not the grief that dims the eye;
No accents speak, no tears reveal
The inward pain that cannot die.

Mary! thou know'st not—none can know
The silent woe that still must live;
I would not change that silent woe
For all the joy the world can give.

265

Yet, by thine hair so lightly flowing,
And by thy smiling lips, I vow,
And by thy cheek so brightly glowing,
And by the meekness of thy brow,

And by those eyes, whose tranquil beam
So joyfully is wont to shine,
As if thy bosom could not dream
Of half the woe that preys on mine,

I do not murmur that another
Hath gained the love I could not wake;
I look on him as on a brother,
And do not hate him—for thy sake.

And, Mary, when I gaze on thee,
I think not on my own distress;
Serene—in thy serenity,
And happy—in thine happiness.

III.

A flower in nature's fairest dress
Bloomed on its parent tree;
Brightly it blushed in loveliness—
That blush was not for me!

266

Oh! not for me, right well I knew;
And yet I watched it where it grew,
Fondly and fearfully;
And often from my heart I prayed
That gentle Flower might never fade.

I could have borne to see it bloom
By other hands caressed,
Giving its blossoms and perfume
To deck another's breast;
And when that Flower, in future days,
Had met my melancholy gaze,
Still living and still blest,
I should have spoke a calmer tone,
And made its happiness my own.

But thus to find it hurled away
By him to whom it clung,
To watch it withering day by day,
So beautiful and young!
To see it dying, yet repress
The agony of tenderness
That lingers on the tongue!—
Alas! and doth it come to this,
Mary, thy cherished dream of bliss!

Gone is the colour from thy cheek,
The lustre from thine eye;

267

Thy brow is cold, thy step is weak,
Thy beauty passeth by!
In ignorance supremely blest
Thy child is slumbering on thy breast,
And feels not “she will die!”
Alas! alas!—I know not how
I speak of this so coldly now!

I love to muse on thee by night!
And, while my bosom aches,
There is a something of delight
In thinking why it breaks;
Therefore doth Reason come in vain;—
I doat on this consuming pain;
Cling to the wounds it makes;
Talk—dream of it, and find relief
E'en in the bitterness of grief.

Where are ye now, ye coldly wise,
Who bid the passions sleep,
Who scorn the mourner when he sighs,
And call it crime to weep?
Yours is the lifelessness of life!—
I will not change this inward strife
For all your precepts deep,
Nor lose, in my departing years,
The pain—the bliss—the throb of tears!

268

IV.

I saw thee wedded—thou didst go
Within the sacred aisle,
Thy young cheek in a blushing glow
Betwixt a tear and smile.
Thy heart was glad in maiden glee,
But he it loved so fervently
Was faithless all the while;
I hate him for the vow he spoke—
I hate him for the vow he broke.

I hid the love that could not die,
Its doubts, and hopes, and fears,
And buried all my misery
In secrecy and tears;
And days passed on, and thou didst prove
The pang of unrequited love
E'en in thine early years;
And thou didst die—so fair and good—
In silence, and in solitude!

While thou wert living, I did hide
Affection's secret pains:
I'd not have shocked thy modest pride
For all the world contains;

269

But thou hast perished, and the fire
That, often checked, could ne'er expire,
Again unhidden reigns:
It is no crime to speak my vow,
For ah! thou canst not hear it now.

Thou sleepest 'neath thy lowly stone
That dark and dreamless sleep;
And he, thy loved and chosen one—
Why goes he not to weep?
He does not kneel where I have knelt
He cannot feel what I have felt,
The anguish still and deep,
The painful thoughts of what has been,
The canker-worm that is not seen!

But I—as o'er the dark blue wave
Unconsciously I ride,
My thoughts are hovering o'er thy grave
My soul is by thy side.
There is one voice that wails thee yet,
One heart that cannot e'er forget
The visions that have died;
And aye thy form is buried there—
A doubt—an anguish—a despair!