University of Virginia Library

And thus the endless round goes ever on,
Unceasing woe, unwearied weariness;
No pause; no rest; but ever aching motion—
Uncheck'd propulsion of a broken limb!
And still the world doth drag me at its wheel
Over the miry ways and sloughs of time,—
A thing half dead, with weary arms astretch
For anything to cling to out of this
Perpetual whirl and vortex of mad life.
Ah me! My hours are like a warrior's trophies,—
Nothing but skulls that speak but of the past:
My days are like long feverish dreams, and I
The dreamer, in the arms of nightmares. Ah!
The earth is very wretched, or I am—
It matters not which. For ever since the day
When I first knew I loved him, and that he
Worshipp'd another, I have been as now—
Hopeless and aimless, loveless and alone.
And my too passionate soul, without disguise
Hath stretchèd forth its wither'd arm and held
My torn and cinder'd heart within its hand,
Crying unto the giddy world, Lo here!
Here is a trophy of that bright thing love—
Bright it may be, but 'tis a scorcher—Look!
But he—he knows not of my poor affection,
Nor shall he know it till I am no more.
And when will that be? O my soul, when, when?
This is the question that I ever ask,
And which all fair things ever ask of me.
Daily the Morn, my sweet young sister, comes
With her round face, and peers into my eyes,
And, with a look of pitying wonder, says
Thou here yet, Edith? Get thee to thy grave!
And nightly, Darkness steals on tiptoe, and
Whispers my soul to go and rest with her.
Rest? Yes! how gladly.—There is no rest here.
All things are weary of their life. I am.
Yet all live on; yes, live and move; and climb
Up toppling crags and peaks with mangled limbs,
Longing to plunge into the dark abyss,
But held back still by too, too cruel hands.
The flowers all die when winter comes, but I—
Although the earth to me is one wide waste—
A winter with no spring at hand, still live;
And, like a dead leaf whirling at a wheel,
Flap in the face of all, my wither'd life.
All things seem'd mantled in a sad unrest—
No quiet,—none! day after day the sun
Showeth his broad bright face, as though he mock'd
The very woe which is consuming him.
Day after day he cometh with his gleams
Like a great glittering lie. For know we not
That the black spots upon his disk reveal—
Spite of his beamy looks and shows of joy—
That he too has a dark, scorched heart within.
And the poor moon—how pale she looks—how sad!
And Oh! how weary. She's no hypocrite.
Not she! Wan, woe-worn moon! And then the stars
Trembling up there, upon thy great swart face
O infinite, all longing to drop down,
Only that woe has blister'd them in fire,
In pallid fire upon thy weary cheeks!
Night is the only time, alas! when there
Is any show of rest,—when all things don
Their black wo-mantles, and seem what they are,—
All dark! All dark! When will this mocking light,
This still recurring eye-ache have an end?
Ah when? There is that clock still ticking there,
Prating of time for ever. I am sick
Of listening to it as I have for nights,
When all was still, and rain no longer beat
In gusty fury on the window-panes;
And I have said unto myself, O Time,
When, when shall I have done with thee, Arch-Woe?
Ah! I have thought, and thought, until my brain
Whirl'd like the Jotun-halls—the Jornumgandus
Of the bleak North; and all its giddy thoughts,
Like the Mad Giants in their spinning prison,
Thundered against the reeling sides, and called
Aloud, but all in vain, for egress. Oh!
It is a weary, weary thing to live,
And wish to die;—to be a flower within
The hard, cold gripe of Death, which he in sport
Seems ever pulling at, but will not pluck;
To feel the cold trail of the worm in life—
Coffined, but sentient still—and have your heart
Crying out ever to your tortured soul,
In pity to release its hold, and go:
And yet it goes not, but remaineth still,
Dangling like Absalom, by the tangled hair.
Oh! for some great good hand to sheer it off,
And let me sleep beneath the toll of bells!
But this is wickedness—profanity!
Have mercy on me, O my God, for I
Would rather die a thousand thousand deaths,
Than earn Thy just and most tremendous frown!
It is this sad repining that reveals,
In spite of all my plaints, my love of earth;
And yet I love it not. Oh no! Oh no!
Then why do I thus plunge a fester'd hand
Into its dust, and then complain of pain?
Oh! Let me rather keep my eye on heaven.
And then, when I am fit to die, I shall.
How can I die? How can I go to heaven,
When one half of my bleeding soul
Is spent in pitying the other.—How?
The very memory of all my woes
Is that which binds me firmly to them still.
But I will pray:

O, Thou Almighty One!
Thou knowest I am weak, but Thou art strong.
Assist me, I beseech Thee, to forget,
And to remember both. May I forget
The earth, and all my sorrows, and recline
Upon Thy faithful bosom evermore.
Teach me, O Lord! to cast my soul on Thee;
To fling the burden of my heart away,
And soar upon the golden plumes of praise;
To clasp the ripen'd fruits of Paradise,
And sun my faint and world-stung soul in heaven.
Oh! I am weary, Lord! Give me thy rest,
My Father! Thou art merciful, I know.
Mine is the blame that I am not with Thee.
For if my soul had been too pure for earth
Thou would'st have taken it unto Thyself.
Purge me, O Lord, and make my spirit free
From all world-taints, and wishes vain and void.
Give me, as my companion, a bright hope,
With finger ever pointing to the skies,
And plucking, as a balm for all my woe,
Stray flowerets from the wreath which waits me yet
In thy great golden halls, O Mighty One!
These reminiscences of sorrow are
The cables which retain my soul in port.
Loosen them, Lord; and let my spirit start
On her bright, boundless voyage up to Thee,
Over the track of moonbeams, and the trail
Of sorrow-mocking stars. Remove regret—
This vain regret, O Lord; and make my soul
A thing too bright to reflect aught but Thee.
Assist me still to look, as I have done
Often and often, to the great reward
Which Thou still holdest in thy mighty hand
For all who triumph over sin and death.
And may sweet peace descend upon my soul—
Soft as the sleep of moonbeams on a lake,
Bright as the breath of morning over earth—
That peace which is the dawning love of God,
Destined to ripen into day in heaven.
O God, I bless thee that I feel this now.
May it continue with me as a star,
One sole star with a dark and cloudy night,
Which she seems ever folding to her heart,
Like a lone widow her poor one last babe.
Teach me to bow to thy most holy will;
Teach me the glorious gift of waiting, Lord;
Ever to stretch my weary hands towards Thee,
Till Thou in mercy sayest, “It is enough,
Poor troubled spirit. Come up hither, thou,”
And stretchest forth Thy great sun-girdled arm
To take me to my mother and Thyself.
And O, my God, bless him—Alexis—he
Who is the unconscious cause of all my woe;
Bless him, and that fair child, his Flora, and
May they be dear unto each other, Lord,
As moonlight is to starlight. May they live
Enfolded in Thy grace, as planets are
In the far-streaming splendour of their suns.
Girdle them round with love as Spring with flowers,
Or as Orion with his starry belt.
And may they rest in peace, as sunbeams on
Still rivers. May they never, never know
That wearing of the heart which I have felt;
And may they be upraised to heaven by bliss,
And not be pointed there, like me, by woe.
Guard them, O God, and let their path be light,
And let their life be golden, like the strings
From which Thou drawest melody in heaven;
And still upon the round of all their joys
May they see written Thy Almighty name;
And may their death be like a sweet repose,
Unbroken but by joy unspeakable,
Like music breaking on a starry night.
Bless them; and bless the world. O may it rest
In peace upon Thy bosom, like a ship
On the unrippled silver of the sea,
Or like a green tree in the circling blue
Of the bright joyousness of summer morns.
May all its nations learn Thy love and praise.
May all its laws be equity and good.
May all its hearts be shrines for Thine and Thee;
And all its ransomed souls dwell in Thy smile,
Like the white snow of wave-crowns in the light.
O, may the world be holy, till its breast
Glows like a seraph's, filled with love of Thee;
Till its bright shining orbit be a ring
Round the forefinger of Thy mighty hand,
And earth the gemmed love-token on its sphere
Whose being is to be kissed out in bliss,
Like a star melting in the arms of morn,
By Thee, Almighty One—while all its souls
Pass like the pomp of triumph into heaven!
And O, bless me, my Lord: and let me rest
Upon Thy love, even as a cloud on heaven,
Or as a shadow on still waters; and
To Thee, Thee only with Thy blessed Son,
And with the Holy Spirit be the praise
Now, and for evermore, O God!

Amen. [She rises: after a long pause.

Oh, what a mighty power resides in prayer!
Whose voice, however lowly it may be,
Winds round the diamond halls and thrones of heaven
In music, to the ear of God Himself;
And whose uplifted hands are press'd by His
In token of forgiveness and of love.
Now can I see that all the world is fair,
Is in herself most bright and beautiful;
Although for me she never wreathes a smile;
For light-lipped, lovely wanton as she is,
She kisses none who kiss her not again.
Now can I see that I have lived alone
With my own sorrow, and that, like the night,
Gazing upon her image in the seas,
Have said, How dark those sunless waters are!
For I have kept my weary eye still fix'd
Upon the shadow of my soul till now,
When God hath turned it towards the shining sun,
That, bath'd in laughing lustre, gleam'd behind.