Part 4 — THE DESERTED.

———

BY MISS MATTIE GRIFFITH.

———

Why didst thou leave me thus? Had memory

No chain to bind thee to me, lone and wrecked

In spirit as I am? Was there no spell

Of power in my deep, yearning love to stir

The sleeping fountain of thy soul, and keep

My image trembling there? Is there no charm

In strong and high devotion such as mine

To win thee to my side once more? Must I

Be cast forever off for brighter forms

And gayer smiles? Alas! I love thee still.

Love will not, cannot perish in my heart—

’Twill linger there forever. Even now

In our own dear, sweet sunset time, the hour

Of passion’s unforgotten tryst, I hush

The raging tumult of my soul, and still

The fierce strife in my lonely breast where pride

Is fiercely struggling for control. Each hue

Of purple, gold and crimson that flits o’er

The western sky recalls some by-gone joy,

That we have shared together, and my soul

Is love’s and memory’s.

As here I sit

In loneliness, the thought comes o’er my heart

How side by side in moonlight eves, while soft

The rose-winged hours were flitting by, we stood

Beside that clear and gently-murmuring fount

O’erhung with wild and blooming vines, and felt

The spirit of a holy love bedew

Our hearts’ own budding blossoms. There I drank

The wild, o’ermastering tide of eloquence

That flowed from thy o’erwrought and burning soul.

There thou didst twine a wreath of sweetest flowers

To shine amid my dark brown locks, and now

Beside me lies a bud, the little bud

Thou gav’st me in the glad, bright summer-time,

Telling me ’twas the emblem of a hope

That soon would burst to glorious life within

Our spirit’s garden. The poor fragile bud

Is now all pale and withered, and the hope

Is faded in my lonely breast, and cast

Forever forth from thine.

They tell me, too,

My brow and cheek are very pale—Alas!

There is no more a spirit-fire within

To light it with the olden glow. Life’s dreams

And 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 stirs

Within my breast, and wakens from the tomb

Of withered memories one pale, pale rose,

To bloom a moment there, and cast around

Its sweet and gentle fragrance, but anon

It vanishes away, as if it were

A 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 thou

Dost ever shine the gayest ’mid 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 sneer

Is all thy comment. Yet, proud man, I know

Beneath thy hollow mask of recklessness

Thy conscious heart still beats as true to me

As in the happy eves long past. Ah! once,

In night’s still hour, when I went forth to weep

Beneath our favorite tree, whose giant arms

Seemed 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 secrecy

Had’st sought that spot, like me, to muse and weep

O’er blighted memories. Thou art, like me,

In heart a mourner. In thy solitude,

When mortal eyes behold thee not, wild sighs

Convulse thy bosom, and thy hot tears fall

Like burning rain. Oh! ’twas thy hand that dealt

The blow to both our hearts. I well could bear

My own fierce sufferings, but thus to feel

That thou, in all thy manhood’s glorious strength

Dost bear a deep and voiceless agony,

Lies on my spirit with the dull, cold weight

Of death. I see thee in my tortured dreams,

And even with a smile upon thy lip,

But a keen arrow quivering deep within

Thy throbbing, bleeding heart. Go, thou may’st wed

Another; but beside the altar dark

My mournful form will stand, and when thou see’st

The wreath of orange blossoms on her brow,

Oh! it will seem a fiery scorpion coiled

Wildly around thine own.

I’m dying now;

Life’s sands are failing fast, the silver cord

Is loosed and broken, and the golden bowl

Is shattered at the fount. My sun has set,

And dismal clouds hang o’er me; but afar

I see the glorious realm of Paradise,

And by its cooling fountains, and beneath

Its holy shades of palm, my soul will wash

Away its earthly stains, and learn to dream

Of heavenly joys. Farewell! despite thy cold

Desertion, 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’s-pinion I will fan

Thy aching brow, and by a holy spell,

That I may learn in Heaven, will charm away

All evil thoughts and passions from thy breast,

And calm the raging tumult of thy soul.