The world was now before them, they enter'd in its coil, Like the serpent's rainbow circles, and with as deadly spoil; He wedded with another, I know not of his bride, Her hair was glistening blackness, a sort of golden gloom, Like sunshine on the raven's wing, a softness and a bloom; Dark, like the nightfall, on her cheek the dusky eyelash lay, But the sweet eyes beneath were blue as April or as day. Her cheek was pale as moonlight, that melancholy light, My God! the utter wretchedness that waiteth on the heart, That nurses an unconscious hope, to see that hope depart ; That owns not to itself it loves, until that love is known, By feeling in the wide, wide world so utterly alone. No face seem'd pleasant to her sight, one image linger'd there, The echo of one only voice was on the haunted air. Yet she, too, at the altar gave up her wan cold hand, She stands before her mirror, it is her wedding day, scorn That hour's impassion'd agony, alas! it must be borne. And long years are before her, long, weary, wasting years; Though tears grow heavy on the lash, she must suppress those tears; The past must be forgotten, and 'tis the past that gives Such is a common history, in this our social state, To droop beneath an outward smile-such is a woman's lot. I AM COME BUT YOUR SPIRITS TO RAISE. BY THE LADY E. S. WORTLEY. How d'ye do-how d'ye do, my sweet Jane, I have volumes to tell you, indeed I'm enchanted to see you again— What a life we young ladies do lead! To be sure, since your poor father's death, You've been locked up and blocked up at home, Like a sword left to rust in the sheath, Like a plant left to pine in the gloom. After all, I'm a bit of a blue, As you fail not I hope to remark― And half a philosopher too, Since I know plants can't thrive in the dark! Any more than young ladies can bloom, From society's bright haunts apart, In the dull cloudy climate of home, Where they're pierced by cold ennui's vile dart. Now your hair always hangs out of curl, You are grown quite a different girl, But I'm come now your spirits to raise, And to cheer you, and soothe you awhile; Shall we talk of balls, operas, and plays, What, no look, and no word, and no smile? Ah! I know what you're dying to hear, Which seem dreadfully nervous and low ! Dearest creature! alone for your sake, Out of love to my Jane I have tried And, indeed, truth to say, on his side You must know there's no lack of good will. But I speak to him still in your praise, For these men are such creatures, you know, When removed from the world's busy ways, They forget us at once-'tis still so! |