Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
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Conclusion to Part I.
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| III. |
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
Conclusion to Part I.
The murderer's knife is a fearful thing,
But what, were it edged with a scorpion's sting?
A dagger of glass hath death in its stroke,
But what, should venom gush out as it broke?
And hatred in a man's deep heart
Festereth there like the barb of a dart,
Maddening the fibres at every beat,
And filling its caverns with fever-heat;
But jealous rage in a woman's soul
Simmers and steams as a poison-bowl;
A drop were death, but the rival maid
Must drain all dry, e'er the passion be stay'd;
It floodeth the bosom with bitterest gall,
It drowneth the young virtues all,
And the sweet milk of the heart's own fountain,
Choked and crush'd by a heavy mountain,
All curdled, and harden'd, and blacken'd, doth shrink
Into the fossil sepia's ink:
The eye of suspicion deep sunk in the head
Shrinks and blinks with malice and dread,
And the cheek without and the heart within
Are blister'd and blighted with searing sin,
Till charity's self no more can trace
Aught that is lovely in feature or face;
But the rose-bud is canker'd, and shall not bloom,
Corruption hath scented the rich perfume,
The angel of light is a demon of gloom,
And the bruise on his brow is the seal of his doom!
But what, were it edged with a scorpion's sting?
A dagger of glass hath death in its stroke,
But what, should venom gush out as it broke?
And hatred in a man's deep heart
Festereth there like the barb of a dart,
Maddening the fibres at every beat,
And filling its caverns with fever-heat;
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Simmers and steams as a poison-bowl;
A drop were death, but the rival maid
Must drain all dry, e'er the passion be stay'd;
It floodeth the bosom with bitterest gall,
It drowneth the young virtues all,
And the sweet milk of the heart's own fountain,
Choked and crush'd by a heavy mountain,
All curdled, and harden'd, and blacken'd, doth shrink
Into the fossil sepia's ink:
The eye of suspicion deep sunk in the head
Shrinks and blinks with malice and dread,
And the cheek without and the heart within
Are blister'd and blighted with searing sin,
Till charity's self no more can trace
Aught that is lovely in feature or face;
But the rose-bud is canker'd, and shall not bloom,
Corruption hath scented the rich perfume,
The angel of light is a demon of gloom,
And the bruise on his brow is the seal of his doom!
Ah! poor unconscious rival maid,
How drearily must thou sicken and fade
In the foul air of that Upas-shade!
How drearily must thou sicken and fade
In the foul air of that Upas-shade!
Her heart must be tried, and trampled, and torn
With fear, and care, and slander, and scorn;
Her love must look upon love estranged,
Her eye must meet his eye, how changed,
Her hand must take his hand unpressing,
Her hope must die, without confessing;
And still she'll strive her love to smother,
While in the triumphs of another
The shadow of her joys departed
Shall scare and haunt her broken-hearted;
And he, who once loved her, his purest, his first,
Must hate her and hold her defiled and accurst,
Till, wasted and desolate, calumny's breath
Must taint with all guilt her innocent death.
With fear, and care, and slander, and scorn;
Her love must look upon love estranged,
Her eye must meet his eye, how changed,
Her hand must take his hand unpressing,
Her hope must die, without confessing;
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While in the triumphs of another
The shadow of her joys departed
Shall scare and haunt her broken-hearted;
And he, who once loved her, his purest, his first,
Must hate her and hold her defiled and accurst,
Till, wasted and desolate, calumny's breath
Must taint with all guilt her innocent death.
| Ballads for the Times | |