 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
260
TOO LATE.
Too late—the curse of life!
Could we but read
In many a heart the thoughts that inly bleed,
How oft were found,
Engraven deep, those words of saddest sound,
Curse of our mortal state,
Too late! too late!
Could we but read
In many a heart the thoughts that inly bleed,
How oft were found,
Engraven deep, those words of saddest sound,
Curse of our mortal state,
Too late! too late!
Tears are there, acrid drops
That do not rise
Quick gushing to the eyes,
Kindly relieving, as they gently flow,
The mitigable woe:
But oozing inward, silent, dark, and chill,
Like some cavernous rill,
That falls congealing—turning into stone
The thing it falls upon.
That do not rise
Quick gushing to the eyes,
Kindly relieving, as they gently flow,
The mitigable woe:
But oozing inward, silent, dark, and chill,
Like some cavernous rill,
That falls congealing—turning into stone
The thing it falls upon.
But now and then, maybe,
The pent-up pain
Breaks out resistless in some passionate strain
Of simulated grief;
Seeking relief
In that fond idle way
From thoughts on life that prey.
The pent-up pain
Breaks out resistless in some passionate strain
Of simulated grief;
Seeking relief
In that fond idle way
From thoughts on life that prey.
“How truthfully conceived!”
With glistening eyes,
Some listener cries;
“Fine art to feign so well!”
Ah! none can tell
So truthfully the deep things of the heart
Who have not felt the smart.
With glistening eyes,
Some listener cries;
261
Ah! none can tell
So truthfully the deep things of the heart
Who have not felt the smart.
Too late—the curse of life!
Take back the cup
So mockingly held up
To lips that may not drain.
Was it no pain
That long heart-thirst?
That the life-giving draught is offered first
On that extremest shore
Who leaves, shall thirst no more.
Take back the cup
So mockingly held up
To lips that may not drain.
Was it no pain
That long heart-thirst?
That the life-giving draught is offered first
On that extremest shore
Who leaves, shall thirst no more.
Take back the cup!—yet, no;
Who dares to say
'Tis mockingly presented? Let it stay.
If here too late,
There is a better state,
A cup that this may typify, prepared
For those who've little of life's sweetness shared,
Nor many flowerets found
On earthly ground;
Yet patiently hold on, awaiting meek
The call of Him they seek—
“Come thou that weepest, yet hast stood the test,—
Come to thy rest.”
Who dares to say
'Tis mockingly presented? Let it stay.
If here too late,
There is a better state,
A cup that this may typify, prepared
For those who've little of life's sweetness shared,
Nor many flowerets found
On earthly ground;
Yet patiently hold on, awaiting meek
The call of Him they seek—
“Come thou that weepest, yet hast stood the test,—
Come to thy rest.”
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |