Act 5 — THE WASTED HEART.

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BY MISS L. VIRGINIA SMITH.

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“The trees of the forest shall blossom again,

The song-bird shall warble its soul-thrilling strain,

But the heart Fate hath wasted no spring can restore,

And its song shall be joyful—no more, never more.”

A blush was deepening through the folded leaves

Of that young, guileless heart, and far within

Upon the altar of her soul a flame

Like to an inspiration came; she felt

That she had learned to love as e’en the heart

Of woman seldom loves.

She was an orphan child, and sorrow’s storm

With bitter breath had swept her gentle soul;

But that was past—and fresh in purity

It reveled in a blissful consciousness—

It loved, and was beloved.

She knew she loved—and when the twilight dim

Stole on with balmy silence, she would list

A coming step, whose music fall kept time

To all the hurried throbbings of her heart,

And when it stayed, a softened glance would seek

Her drooping eye, whose deepest faith had poured

Its dreamy worship forth so fearlessly;

Eyes that to him alone were never silent,

Whose glances sometimes sought for his, and threw

Their light far through his spirit, till it thrilled

To music every tightened nerve that strung

The living lyre of being.

At such an hour his burning passion slept

Before the portals of their azure heaven,

Like to some wandering angel who has sunk

To rest beside the glory-shadowed gate

Of a lost Paradise; and when he bowed

To press his lip upon the brow that lay

Soft pillowed on his bosom, she would start

Up from his half embrace, and then, to hide

Her sweet confusion, turn aside to part

With white and jeweled fingers, tremblingly,

The rich, dark masses of his waving hair.

Then joyous hopes came crowding brightly through

Their dreaming souls, as did the evening stars

Through the calm heaven above them, and the world

Of happiness that lay upon their hearts

Was silent all, for language had no words

To shadow forth the fond imaginings,

That made its very atmosphere a heaven

Of dreamy, rich, voluptuous purity.

An angel bowed before the mercy-seat

Trusts not more purely in the changeless One

To whom his prayer ascendeth, than did she

The proud, bright being whom her deathless love

Had made its idol-god—she could have laid

Her soft white hand in his without one thought

Except of love and trust, and bade him lead

Her to the end of life’s bewildered maze,

Blindfolded, while her heart on his would rest

Without one care for Time, one lonely fear

For that Eternity which mortals dread.

Such, then, is woman’s love—and wo to him

By whom her trusting nature is betrayed!

——

A change—a fearful, sad and blighting change—

Came o’er them—how or why it matters not—

Enough to know it came—enough to feel

That they shall meet as they have met, no more.

Of him we speak not—we but know he lives;

And she whose heart, whose very life was his,

Could tell you nothing more.

Lost—lost forever—and her life stood still,

And gazed upon the future’s cold gray heaven,

As if to catch one gleam of hope’s fair star—

No hope was there for her—the hand of God

Lay darkly in the cloud that shadowed it.

A never-ending, living death was hers,

And one by one she saw her hopes expire,

But shed no tear, because the fount was dry;

Hers was a grief too strangely sad for tears.

You heard no shriek of anguish as the tide

Of cold and leaden loneliness swept in

Upon her gentle bosom, though the fall

Of earth upon the coffin of the loved

And lost was not more fearful.

She prayed for power to “suffer and be still.”

And God was merciful—it came at last,

As dreamless slumber to a heart that mourns.

She smoothed her brow above a burning brain,

Her eye was bright, and strangers never knew

That all its brilliancy and light was drawn

From out the funeral pyre of every hope

That in an earlier, happier hour had glowed

On passion’s hidden altar. Months rolled on,

And when the softened color came again

To cheek and lip, it was as palely bright

As though from out a sleeping rose’s heart

Its sweetest life had faded tranquilly.

She mingled with the world—its gay saloons

Gave back the echo of her joyous laugh;

Her ruby lip, wreathed with its winning smile,

Gently replied to gentler flatteries,

And when her soul flowed forth upon the waves

Of feeling in the charméd voice of song,

You would have deemed that gushing melody

The music of a purest, happiest heart,

So bird-like was its very joyousness.

And many envied that lone orphan girl

Her light and happy spirit—oh! it was

A bitter, burning mockery! when her life

Was one continued struggle with itself

To seem what it could never be—to hide

Its gnawing vulture ’neath a sunny smile—

To crush the soul that panted to be free—

And force her gasping heart to drink again

The love that fed upon itself and wore

Her inner life away!

They could not know her—could not understand

How one could live, and smile, and still be cursed,

Cursed with a “living judgment,” once to be

Beloved—and then to be beloved no more,

And never to forget. Her life was like

Some pictured lily which the artist’s hand

Gives its proportion—shades its virgin leaves

With nature’s beauty—but the bee can find

No banquet there—the breeze waft no perfume.

The shadows of the tomb have lengthened o’er

Her sky that blushes with the morn of life;

Far on the inner shrine of Memory’s fane,

Lie the cold ashes of her “wasted heart,”

By burning sighs that sweep the darkened soul,

By lava-drops wrung from a fevered brain,

Or e’en the breath of God to be rekindled

Never—no “never more!”

——

And thus it is that woman’s sacrifice

Upon the altar of existence is

(That pulse of life) her warm and loving heart!

Far other tongues beside the poet’s lyre

There are to teach us that we often do

But “let our young affections run to waste

And water but the desert”—that we make

An idol to ourselves—we bow before

Its worshiped altar-stone, and even while

Our incense-wreaths of adoration rise

It crumbles down before that breath, a mass

Of shining dust; we garner in our hearts

A stream of love undying, but to pour

Its freshness out at last upon a shrine

Of gilded clay!

Our barque floats proudly on—

The waves of Time may bear us calmly o’er

This life’s deep under-current—but the tones

Of love that woke the echoes of the Past

Are stilled, or only murmur mournfully,

“No more—oh! never more!”

And other hearts who bow before the shrine

Of young though shadowed beauty—can they know

What is the idol that they seek to win?

A mind the monument—a form the grave—

Where sleep the ashes of a “wasted heart!”