The Sorrows of Rosalie A Tale. With Other Poems [by C. E. S. Norton] |
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[Oh, ye for whom this tale of woe is told] |
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 | The Sorrows of Rosalie |  |
[Oh, ye for whom this tale of woe is told]
I
Oh, ye for whom this tale of woe is told,Who tempest-tost on passion's stormy deep,
Too weak for virtue, yet in vice not bold,
Irresolutely turn away and weep:
Deep in your torn and wavering bosoms keep
One love, beyond all others;—'tis a love
Shall never cost you tears, or bid you sleep
Less calmly on your couch, lest it should prove
A vain and faithless dream by wandering fancy wove.
viii
II
It is the love of God! Your idols treadWhere death hath raised his ever-pointed dart:
“Thou shalt not worship them.” So He hath said
Whose word is law. The numbered hours depart,
And the frail idol of each trembling heart
Is snatched in mercy from you, that when riven
Are all the gentle ties whose magic art
Made earth appear your home, the soul forgiven
May gladly wing its free unfettered flight to heaven.
III
And ye who make the joyful heart to grieve,Ye tempters of the weak and sinful! learn
To think upon the future: oh, believe
Days come, when in your hearts, now cold and stern,
The worm that dieth not, Remorse, shall burn,
And ye shall mourn the ruin ye have made—
Shed the vain tear o'er the unconscious urn,
Where, early blighted, 'neath Guilt's venomed shade,
Lie young confiding hearts, by cruelty betrayed.
ix
IV
The small still voice shall whisper you, and hauntYour brightest noon-day hour, your stillest night;
And with its deep mysterious power shall daunt
Each coward heart amid the halls of light,
Making the day seem hateful to your sight.
Yes, ye shall writhe beneath th' avenging rod!
Oh, vainly would ye chase your soul's affright,
Or seek to hide beneath the mountain sod,
From the unerring eye of an offended God!
V
Deem not the tale o'erwrought; ye little thinkHow many, whom ye knew when young and gay,
The bitter waters of affliction drink,
And vainly weep their wretched lives away.
Pause o'er the cloud-hid future—shun the ray
Which, meteor-like, misleads, and dies again—
The mournful darkness of each summer's day—
The listless sadness of a heart in pain:—
Tempters and tempted pause, e'er yet that pause be vain!
| The Sorrows of Rosalie | |