 | The Village Churchyard |  |
192
THE CONTRAST.
No! it was not the diamonds that blazed round her arms,Nor the pearls that exalted her forehead's fair charms,
Nor the circlet of brilliants that gleamed mid her hair,
That arrested my footsteps, to gaze on her there.
'T was the misery throned on her deathly pale brow;
'T was the coldness and dampness that sate on its snow;
'T was the wide-wandering glance of her dark, rolling eye;
'T was the half-smothered tone of her tremulous sigh!
193
Where no tear must be shed—and no pang be avowed;
O, sorrow of sorrows! to dwell 'mid the gay—
When the heart with its anguish is withering away;
When with agonized eyes we must view the bright throng,
And with agonized ears, hear the loud festal song—
And with agonized heart, coin smiles hollow and vain,
A mask—but a poor fragile mask for its pain!
When that heart gathers back to its centre and core,
The long troubled waves that o'erflowed it before—
And the pressure of grief, and the weight of dismay,
Is too much for the spirit—too much for the clay!
O, sorrow of sorrows! to mix with the many,
When the soul is too sick to share converse with any;
194
Like the shapes of a dream on some wizard's charmed glass;
While a thousand bright pleasures seem beckoning us on,
And our hearts are by one sore affliction undone—
While a thousand light subjects we hear gay discussed,
While one torturing reflection grinds us to the dust—
No, it was not the diamonds that blazed round her arms,
Not her queen-like array, nor her exquisite charms—
'T was the look that she bore of eternal Despair,
That arrested my footsteps to gaze on her there!
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