A Duet

"There's a strange glow upon thy cheek to-day,And an unnatural luster in thine eye;And often o'er thy red lip's restless play,The mournful tones steal forth and quivering die.Miriam, thy glance doth startle me as strange,There is such deep intenseness in its gaze;Surely thy heart hath felt some sudden change—Some heavy sorrow on thy spirit lays."

"Nay, mark not that the varying tide of thoughtHath taken, for once, more than its usual glowOf ever-burning sadness: it is naught;Then do not pain thy breast with thoughts of woe.True, my cheek burns, but with mere earnestness,The force of feelings in my heart untold—Thoughts which I cherish not, nor can repress,Not of wild sorrow, nor yet calmly cold."

"Ah, sister! is this all? Thou canst not hideThe secret sadness wearing life away;The bitterness that in thy heart doth hide,Dwelling in its still depths by night and day.I tell thee I have heard thee in thy sleepMurmuring strange, mournful words, that ever seemSo low and yet so wild, they make me weepTo think thy heart is breaking in thy dream."

"Do I then murmur in my sleep to thee,Betraying the sad fancies in my brain?'Sleep hath its own world'—realityThou shouldst not link with its unreal pain.Sybil, dear sister, lay thy cheek to mine—Talking of grief has even made me sad;Whisper of love—no other love but thine!And talk to me as though you deemed me glad."

"Ah, my own Miriam! has no other loveNo whisper—no unutterable thrill—Has thy warm heart, o'er-freighted like the dove,With riches of affection, now grown still?Surely the past, the bright, the lovely past,Hath dreamy tales of love, and life, and bliss;You do not deem such joys too bright to last—Think of those hours and they will brighten this."

"Talk not of love! there's that within my heartWhereon it falls as living fire would fallUpon an unclosed wound; and memories startFearful as specters from beneath the pallOf the unburied dead! no more, no more!Never say aught again to me of bliss,Since it is coupled with the empty loreOf earth's vain love—away, away with this."

"Miriam, hush! it frightens me to markThe chilling sternness of thy tone and look:Thine eye hath grown so clear, and bright, and dark,Its thrilling glance mine own can hardly brook.Speak not thus, sister; Sybil's love is true.And there are others of strong faith, and sure;For 'mid the false of earth, a very fewStill keep their trust holy, and high, and pure."

"There may be yet a few, and may it beThy blessed fate to meet them in thy life;But I reck not for any, for to meAll life is weariness—all passion strife.Yet place thy hand upon my heart and feelHow wildly rushes life's impatient tide;But let it chafe! it has no power to stealThe strength away of a yet mightier pride.

"Sybil, thy years are few, and mine are so,Yet have I learned what yet you have not known,And I pray God that you may never know;But thou didst catch the low, half-smothered moan,Breathed by a spirit weary of its chains—Pining in bondage of a scornful will,That will not listen to its sad complains,But sternly chides, and bids its voice be still."

"O Miriam, Miriam! has the withering blightOf some chill frost fell on thy heart's sweet flowers,Freezing the dew-drop that so pure and brightNurtured their bloom in thy life's sunny hours?Has some false hand dared thy rich hopes to crush,And made the sunlight of thy dreaming dim?Then every sob of grief and sorrow hush—Sybil could feel but scorn for such as him."

Ay, scorn for him—but would this make thee loveThy blighted life the more, that thy proud heartFound refuge in disdain? It would but proveHow deep the wound, how fell the laden dart.But no, I mourn not for the love of one,But for the shadows of distrust that clingTo every show of virtue, till the sunOf life's sweet hope is darkened by its wing."

"But is it just or generous thus to thinkThe world is naught but frailty and deceit,Because one hand hath rudely broke the linkThat bound thy love to him in fetters sweet?My gentle sister, thou should be too trueTo let distrust darken thy sunny way;For still some hand around thy feet will strewSuch flowers of love as fade not in a day."

"'Tis well thou thinkest gently of the world,But talk no more of its weak faith to me;My heart's sweet dream is broken—ever furledMy spirit's drooping pinion; and to beA skeptic of earth's earnestness and truthEven hath a bitter pleasure; though so sternIt seems to thee that the full heart of youthHath laid its treasures in love's crumbling urn."

"Miriam, my sister, bitterly I grieveThat thou shouldst throw life's purest gems aside,And smile in very mockery to giveTheir richness at the shrine of chilling pride.O it is better that our faith and loveA thousand times were trampled in the dust,Than with such calm, cold, throbless hearts to moveThrough the fair earth alone—no hope—no trust."