The Maiden of Moscow :: :: University of Virginia Library

Fare thee well!—My long task,—deep and dear!—
And farewell to Hope's flutter and strife;
Ah!—with scarce such a pang—such a tear,
Should I utter,—Farewell to thee, Life!

2

But the sentence, I feel, hath been said,
Heavy hours, like the happiest, shall fly,
Joy!—when tasks and when trials are sped,
Then our business can be but—to die!

3

There are leaves, that go fluttering around,
Where the canker eats deep in its wrath;
Where we trace not the waste, and the wound,
Breaking hearts,—full of death,—line our path!

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4

But the World smileth on, still the same,
That white sepulchre,—crowning the dust,
And forgets their faint vanishing name,
Who once placed, in her shadows, their trust!

5

Heaven!—how many, like me, sadly turn,
From some long-studied lesson, complete;
Still to learn how to suffer and mourn,
While past watching and work, seem but sweet!

6

Many turn to their rest, yet once more,
To find rest,—is denied them below;
And but cease from long labours and sore,
To find leisure, to labour in Woe!

7

Yet few know, in how bitter a mood,
Was this task, planned and fashioned by me;
Few!—if One, hath indeed understood,—
Shall that One blame, where failure may be?

8

Few,—few know, in how hopeless a mood,
Was this task undertaken and wrought,
If the One, hath but well understood,
For each fault,—there, shall favour be sought!—

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9

Where such failure and fault may be found,
Let that One to indulgence incline,
And—though Grief—though neglect, gird me round,
All the fame that I yearn for—is mine!

10

Let Thy Thought judge me gently, and spare,
Where the heart-wound, too clearly is shewn,
All the guerdon I pine for, is there,
All the glory I ask, is mine own!

11

Oft, while seeking, to chain down my mind,
To that subject, I marked for my theme,
How my Fancy reeled, dizzy and blind,
How my Life, melted off in a dream;

12

Saddened thoughts, that would stay not on Earth,
Soared away, from my soul evermore;
But to leave it, in silence and dearth,
While the pain still, struck home, to the core!

13

Could we track those high thoughts,—it were well,
But we send them before us, too fast,
While ourselves seem contented to dwell,
On this hateful Earth's, desolate waste;

853

14

No!—the Pain, and the Pang left me not,
No!—they soared not away from my soul,
Not one grief that I felt,—I forgot,
And each part, was as harsh as the whole!

15

Oft, like bright shattered mirrors, too, seemed,
Those thick fancies, that thronged through my mind!
With such thousand-fold visions they teemed!
Though so shivered—such splendours still lined!

16

And no fragment reflected,—not one,—
The fixed subject, and theme of my toil!
'Twas in vain, still I struggled to shun,
And more broke,—more to spread them, the while.

17

Though scarce conscious,—again and again,
Still I murmured those words, I would write;
But how fruitless, the strife of the brain,
When the deep heart rebels in its might;—

18

Persevering,—I taught me, and traced,
Words—that roused not the lost absent thought,
Part by part, all my trial I faced,
Inch by inch, with my torture I fought!

854

19

I repeated those words at my will,
Which the deaf thought, could ill comprehend,
And in me, was no strength and no skill,
Yet the heart-ache,—and heart-break, shall end!

20

Was that struggle, as hopeless as hard?
As 'twas painful,—was't profitless, too?—
Shall I reap not the one wished reward?
That dear praise,—which alone I pursue!

21

Fare thee well!—my sad task!—deep and dear,
(Now, no more need I seek,—need I shun;)
Commenced, 'mid such faintness and fear,—
And concluded,—Enough!—It is done!

22

Oh! Happiness!—where is thy home?—
Where—where dost thou linger and dwell?—
Stars and Seraphs sing,—“This side the tomb,”
Dear, impossible Blessing!—“Farewell!”

23

Hence!—no more!—Oh!—no more!—never more,
Come in shadow, or seeming near me;
I might dream, thou wert clasped to the core,
And but wake to find Grief,—and not thee!

855

24

Never more!—Never more!—Oh!—No more!—
Come, in feeling, or fancy, near me!
I might dream that I won thee,—and wore,
And I know, 'twould be Grief,—and not Thee!

25

Did I think I could seize thee, when borne,
On the whirlwinds of Passion and Pride?
All my spirit, on fire with its scorn,
All my heart,—like a storm-troubled tide!

26

I believed thou wert found but in Fame;
How I yearned then, to shine and surpass;
Had I built me that nothing,—a name,—
Should I thus have atchieved thee?—Alas!

27

Oh!—Happiness!—Heavens!—were I thine;
What a Sun, thou should'st make of my soul!
All this wild, fervent spirit of mine,
Seems but born for thy burning controul!

28

Then—these strange, deeep o'erflowings of Life,—
(From excess,—keen as Death!)—were divine!
And what rapture should burst frrm their strife,
Oh! Happiness!—could I be thine!

856

29

Wert thou lighted, but once, in this heart,
Which no time, and no torture, can quell,—
High as Heaven, should thy fire mount and dart,
But,—impossible Blessing!—Farewell!