Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes |
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THE HEIRESS. |
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 | Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems |  |
THE HEIRESS.
I
I loved thee for thyself alone,The world reproved my choice;
Yet well thou know'st I claimed thee still,
With no unsteady voice.
They call'd thee fickle;—Oh, how blind
Fond woman's love may be!
I blamed thee not for broken vows,
Rejoicing thou wert free.
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II
My father told me thou wert poor,Improvident, and wild;
He said that want and penury
Would kill his gentle child.
I answer'd not—but secretly
I scorn'd the tale he told;
And then stole forth to offer thee
The heiress and her gold.
III
My mother said—“I do not heedThy lover's want of wealth;—
But will he fondly cherish thee
In sickness and in health?
He has the restless eye of one
Who leads a roving life;
He loves not as thou should'st be loved—
Oh! do not be his wife!”
IV
My father's anger moved me not,Nor yet my mother's tears;
Thy fascination wean'd my heart
From love—the growth of years!
With few and fleeting tears I left
The haunts of early youth,
And placing this weak hand in thine,
I trusted to thy truth.
V
My chosen dwelling would have beenSome undisturb'd retreat;
But led by thee, I trod the halls
Where pleasure's votaries meet.
And if with joy I heard them praise
The beauty of thy bride,
'Twas but because I dearly prized
My husband's glance of pride.
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VI
But then a dreary time came on—I often wept alone;—
And when we met, thy voice had lost
Its former gentle tone.
I utter'd no complaint—thou knowest
I never did repine;—
And if my pale cheek chided thee,
It was no fault of mine.
VII
I heard my boasted wealth was spent:I smiled at such a loss;
My husband's love was more to me,
Far more than hoarded dross.
And was it only this that caused
The frowns upon his brow?
“That wealth has been his bane,”—I cried,
“We shall be happy now!”
VIII
Vain hope! for thou dost shun the homeThy folly rendered poor;
I know not how to win thee back,—
My cheek has lost its lure.
I have no mother now to soothe
My sorrows on her breast;
And he, whose counsel I despised,—
My father—is at rest!
IX
I do not say I love thee not;No, false one, come what will,
Return, and be but kind to me,
And I should love thee still!
A broken mirror still reflects
In every shatter'd part;
'Tis thus love seems but multiplied,
In this poor broken heart.
| Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems | |