The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott Edited by his Son Edwin Elliott ... A New and Revised Edition: Two Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott |  |
THE REJECTED.
His hand clasp'd in hers, she look'd up in the face
That once gazed as fondly on me;
Two boys and a girl, in their butterfly chase,
Ran before them with laughter and glee.
That once gazed as fondly on me;
Two boys and a girl, in their butterfly chase,
Ran before them with laughter and glee.
135
He saw me—he knew me—his brown cheek turn'd pale,
“Oh, still doth he love me?” I sigh'd;
But my heart how it sank! and I felt my knees fail,
As I look'd on his beautiful bride.
“Oh, still doth he love me?” I sigh'd;
But my heart how it sank! and I felt my knees fail,
As I look'd on his beautiful bride.
In their comely attire, and their calm thankful air,
The tale of their virtues was told;
While, childless and mateless, in want and despair,
Was the woman who spurn'd him for gold.
The tale of their virtues was told;
While, childless and mateless, in want and despair,
Was the woman who spurn'd him for gold.
Oh, even at the altar, when coldly I gave
My hand to the thing I had bought,
Remorse told my heart, in a voice from my grave,
That I barter'd a shadow for nought!
My hand to the thing I had bought,
Remorse told my heart, in a voice from my grave,
That I barter'd a shadow for nought!
Nought! call ye it nought to applaud what ye hate?
To honour, yet feign to contemn?
To borrow of servants? and, apeing the great,
Envy all that's look'd down on by them?
To honour, yet feign to contemn?
To borrow of servants? and, apeing the great,
Envy all that's look'd down on by them?
Till at last; but, O Henry! my doom I could bear,
Might I know that thou weepest for me;
And feel, while the robe of my weaving I wear,
That I still am remember'd by thee?
Might I know that thou weepest for me;
And feel, while the robe of my weaving I wear,
That I still am remember'd by thee?
That while thou tread'st humbly, with truth for thy stay,
The path that to competence led,
Thou pitiest the proud one who threw thee away,
And think'st of her desolate bed.
The path that to competence led,
Thou pitiest the proud one who threw thee away,
And think'st of her desolate bed.
| The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott | |