Part 2 — ROSALIND'S SCROLL

From "The Poet's Vow"

I left thee last, a child at heart, A woman scarce in years: I come to thee, a solemn corpse Which neither feels nor fears. I have no breath to use in sighs; They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes To seal them safe from tears.

Look on me with thine own calm look: I meet it calm as thou. No look of thine can change this smile, Or break thy sinful vow: I tell thee that my poor scorned heart Is of thine earth—thine earth, a part: It cannot vex thee now.

But out, alas! these words are writ By a living, loving one, Adown whose cheeks the proofs of life, The warm quick tears do run: Ah, let the unloving corpse control Thy scorn back from the loving soul Whose place of rest is won.

I have prayed for thee with bursting sob When passion's course was free; I have prayed for thee with silent lips In the anguish none could see; They whispered oft, "She sleepeth soft"— But I only prayed for thee.

Go to! I pray for thee no more: The corpse's tongue is still; Its folded fingers point to heaven, But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong, no farther woe Hath license from the sin below Its tranquil heart to thrill.

I charge thee, by the living's prayer, And the dead's silentness, To wring from out thy soul a cry Which God shall hear and bless! Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, And pale among the saints I stand, A saint companionless.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]