The Deserted

WHY didst thou leave me thus? Had memoryNo chain to bind thee to me, lone and wreckedIn spirit as I am? Was there no spellOf power in my deep, yearning love to stirThe sleeping fountain of thy soul, and keepMy image trembling there? Is there no charmIn strong and high devotion such as mine,To win thee to my side once more? Must IBe cast for ever off for brighter formsAnd gayer smiles? Alas! I love thee still.Love will not, cannot perish in my heart—'Twill linger there for ever. Even nowIn our own dear, sweet sunset time, the hourOf passion's unforgotten tryst, I hushThe raging tumult of my soul, and stillThe fierce strife in my lonely breast where prideIs fiercely struggling for control. Each hueOf purple, gold and crimson that flits o'erThe western sky, recalls some by-gone joy,That we have shared together, and my soulIs love's and memory's

As here I sitIn loneliness, the thought comes o'er my heart,How side by side in moonlight eves, while softThe rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stoodBeside that clear and gently-murmuring fountO'erhung with wild and blooming vines, and feltThe spirit of a holy love bedewOur hearts' own budding blossoms. There I drankThe wild, o'ermasterlng tide of eloquenceThat flowed from thy o'erwrought and burning soul.There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowersTo shine amid my dark brown locks, and nowBeside me lies a bud, the little budThou gav'st me in the glad, bright Summer-time,Telling me 'twas the emblem of a hopeThat soon would burst to glorious life withinOur spirits' garden. The poor fragile budIs now all pale and withered, and the hopeIs faded in my lonely breast, and castFor ever forth from thine.

They tell me, too,My brow and cheek are very pale—Alas!There is no more a spirit-fire withinTo light it with the olden glow. Life's dreamsAnd visions all have died within my soul,And I am sad, and lone, and desolate;And yet at times, when I behold thee near,A something like the dear old feeling stirsWithin my breast, and wakens from the tombOf withered memories one pale, pale rose,To bloom a moment there, and cast aroundIts sweet and gentle fragrance, but anonIt vanishes away, as if it wereA mockery, the spectre of a flower.I quell my struggling sighs, and wear a smile;But ah! that smile, more eloquent than sighs,Tells of a broken heart.

'Tis said that thouDost ever shine the gayest amid the gay,That loudest rings thy laugh in festive halls,That in the dance, with lips all wreathed in smiles,Thou whisperest love's delicious flatteries;And if my name is spoken, a light sneerIs all thy comment. Yet, proud man, I knowBeneath thy hollow mask of recklessness,Thy conscious heart still beats as true to meAs in the happy eves long past. Ah! once,In night's still hour, when I went forth to weepBeneath our favorite tree, whose giant armsSeemed stretched out to protect the lonely girl,I marked a figure stealing thence away,And my poor heart beat quick; for oh! I saw,Despite the closely muffled cloak, 'twas thou.Then, then I knew that thou in secrecyHadst sought that spot, like me, to muse and weepO'er blighted memories. Thou art, like me,In heart a mourner. In thy solitude,When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighsConvulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fallLike burning rain. Oh! 'twas thy hand that dealtThe blow to both our hearts. I well could bearMy own fierce sufferings, but thus to feelThat thou, in all thy manhood's glorious strength,Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony,Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weightOf death. I see thee in my tortured dreams,And ever with a smile upon thy lip,But a keen arrow quivering deep withinThy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may'st wedAnother; but beside the altar darkMy mournful form will stand, and when thou seestThe wreath of orange blossoms on her brow,Oh! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiledWildly around thine own.

I'm dying now;Life's sands are falling fast, the silver cordIs loosed and broken, and the golden bowlIs shattered at the fount. My sun has set,And dismal clouds hang o'er me; but afarI see the glorious realm of Paradise,And by its cooling fountains, and beneathIts holy shades of palm, my soul will washAway its earthly stains, and learn to dreamOf heavenly joys. Farewell! despite thy coldDesertion, I will leave my angel home,Each gentle eve, at our own hour of tryst,To hold my vigils o'er thy pilgrimage,And with my spirit-pinion I will fanThy aching brow, and by a holy spell,That I may learn in Heaven, will charm awayAll evil thoughts and passions from thy breast,And calm the raging tumult of thy soul.