Tears in my voice, which still was all for him; I bore my life-my weary life-for him, Without a pang; it was not now my own ; I loved to sweeten what my hand had made Bitter for him-but heaven unappeased
Had wrath in store, more bitter still for both; The loving and the loved must feel the curse Which guilt calls down. What I had suffered then, Was but the earnest of more woe to come. What I had suffered, and that "had" contained A very bitter drop in my full cup,
Which that one drop could cause to overflow. One day my darling raised his large sad eyes In all their plaintive wonder to my face; Then he looked down upon his crippled limbs, Then on my face again-then faltering said, "You did not do it, Auntie, as they say? When nurse is cross because I love you best, She says you did it but I know she lies;
I know you could not, you who love me so, Have made me suffer all this bitter pain;
But when I told her that I knew she lied, She looked so wicked, and she laughed and said 'Ask her some day'-and so I ask you now, That you might tell me, Aunt, how much she lied?" I know not to this day, whether he knew Beyond a doubt that I had worked the ill Which like a canker preyed upon the root
Of his young life. There was that taint of blight By which the crippled frame will stunt the growth, And mar the fair proportions of the soul. Not of the mind, for that is passionless- But of the living soul which feels and throbs, The soul through which material things can touch Th' immortal part-the subtle link which holds
The balance even, betwixt earth and heaven.
That part in him had suffered from the worm
Which gnawed his life. The pride of health disdains The fell disease, which earth-born blights the soul; Yet it is born of tenderness-the tooth Which bites so deep, is that of poisoned love; Of love, which like the bird that found no rest On the bleak waste of waters, turned again, To brood within the prison whence she came.
This brooding of the heart is fraught with pain, For those whose larger sympathies could span All God-created things, with some return, With some green spot to yield them but a tithe Of what they give. The deepest fountain dries Without some feeding source; so must the love That springs without return, run dry at last. As the boy grew, the plague-spot wider spread; He grew more morbid, and returned my love, With a strange fitful earnestness, that seemed, To my fond eyes, to have a dash of hate. A savage love it was, that tore the heart Which needed no fresh wound to make it weep. Once and again, he has come back to me (Galled by some insult, which the cruel world Flung in his path, to make the thorny road Of his uneasy life more painful still) With hot deep words upon his pallid lips, Which though they had a music of their own, Struck harshly on my ear, who loved him so ; Because they gave an utterance to the pain Which lurked within. Could I rejoice, and see A fire kindled in his breast to burn, Scorch, and consume his fragile life away? Ah, no-not I!-I strove in vain to quench The living spark; and striving once again. To bring a blessing, wrought a curse instead. We had a niece-who to our childless home
My lord had brought. 'Twas she who reigned and ruled Queen of the small dominion of his heart. Her fair doll's face and empty smile, to me, Seemed ever mocking the sad curse that fell On all I loved-but it had charms for him; My crippled boy gave his large heart to her, That throbbed too strongly for the fragile case, And broke itself in loving. He was sad, More sad than wont-and even paler still; And still more wayward in his love for me, And wayward even in his love for her.
Not tender as men are-but rash, impulsive, fierce, And self-tormenting. If she smiled on him,
It was in pity-if she frowned, in hate- And if she neither smiled nor frowned, she was Indifferent, cold, contemptuous to his love.
His poor maimed heart was stung by healing balms, And life's sweet honey smacked of gall for him. But I was happy-for I knew that I
Could bend that weak girl, like a willow wand. She feared me, for her fate was in my hands. She even loved me, as weak natures love The stronger nature upon which they lean. I bade her love my boy-or failing that, I bade her wear the semblance of a love She could not feel-and she obeyed my word, So that he thought she loved him-even he Who doubted all things, he was duped in this Ey a poor silly child, who loved him not; To whom the halting of his crippled step, And the fierce rancour of his bruised heart, Were alike hateful. This I knew full well, And yet I drest her in her bridal robes,
And wove white flowers in her golden hair, And wound rich pearls around her swan-like throat, And kissed and bade "God bless her," on the day That made her his. I did not grieve to see How pale she grew, when the halt step approached, Which was to haunt her evermore, till death Cancelled the bond between them; how the tears, Gushed to the large blue eyes that seldom wept ; How the white hand-the small unmeaning hand- Trembled and shivered as it lay in his.
I smiled to see how weak a rival I
Had in the girl, whom now he called his wife; I smiled to see how blest the poor boy was,
In the attainment of his pretty toy;
I saw no thorn upon the flowering stem, Nor gave the poor fly credit for a sting.
He grasped so hard—she was no more to me Than the epitome of emptiness;
Weak, but not wicked-I could not have dreamt Of depth of wrong within the shallow life.
That seemed so vapid and so simply gay, So buoyant in its emptiness, and light
For want of ballast-but there was.
The fluttering moth was nearer to the flame
Which scorched her foolish wings, than I then knew,
Whose dupe she was; whose heart through his she stabbed When, not a twelvemonth from the marriage day,
She left her home and him in wanton shame. Oh stern revenge! Oh thrice offended heaven! Whose anger struck me not in wrathful words, In stern reproach or railing from his lips, Whom I had wronged-but in the heart-deep pain, The strong still calm, of fathomless despair, With which he turned away from me and said, “Crippled again !”—and slowly wandered forth, Into the heartless night; leaving me dark, With the last spark that cheered my life gone out.
AND thus, the door was closed for him on love, And thus, the door was closed for me on day, While the harsh echo filled the vaulted space Which had been empty else of his large heart. My poor, poor boy! All mortal love decays, And strange indifference, first-born child of time, Can place her shadow betwixt friend and friend, Husband and wife-parent and child; in time The firmest links will loosen and unweld, The hardest knot be severed and undone ; The friend who loves us not a little now, In ten years' time may love us not at all, And we be none the worse; but if to-day Some small unkindness, or some trifling sign Of coldness come between ourselves and him, We shall be deeply wronged, or he aggrieved. It is the wrench that kills us-that exhausts The arteries of life, and drains them dry. This was the case with him, who truly said "Crippled again!" It was a sign of that, That he could taunt me with the curse of heaven Who would, for him, have heaven itself forsworn. That he could dig his heel into the heart Bleeding, and sore, and wounded all for him; He did not know-he could not know-that I Prayed day and night upon my weary knees, Not for myself, for I was past all prayer- Beyond all hope-but still I prayed for him, That God would wipe away the curse for him. "The loving and the loved "—ah! why the loved? Not his the sin-upon my guilty head
Let the curse come, and I would welcome it If it spared him, and let some healing salve Reach his deep wound. It seemed my prayer was heard ; He grew more calm-he took another love
To the deserted chamber of his heart.
A love that smiles on those who fiercely woo,
A love that only can be won of such,
A love that brooks no rival in the breast
Of him that worships at her golden shrine. The love of fame had now possessed his soul. A mistress fitted to the lordly mind.
That owned no peer among his fellow men.
Oh! he had words whose flame could light the world, Of passion that could shake the passionless,
Of strength that could give courage to the weak, Of gall, that ever could search out the fool, All armour-proof against the shafts of wit; Of gentle pathos, that could draw the tears From eyes unused to signs of tenderness- From hearts long closed to pity, or to love. He was a heaven-born poet; and the blast, Which scorched his life, had fanned into a flame His gift of words-unsealed his eloquence- Swept down the dam of reticence—and o'er The stony bed let the swift current flow, That had been long pent up within the lake Of his strong nature. Once let loose, it leapt O'er every obstacle, and hurled its strength In reckless passion onwards-ever on- Towards the boundless sea of world-wide fame. And once again he sought the sympathy
Of her whose heart his bitter words had wrung In every fibre-once again he came, With words of fire upon his pallid lips, That set my heart a-glow. His large grey eyes, Dilated in their eagerness, sought mine; And, laying his hand upon the thick-writ page, That trembled in his nervous grasp, he said— "Faithful for ever is the mistress, Fame. Once gained, she will be no man's paramour, Save his who won her. What are wife or child, Or home or hearth, to her-all constant fame? She decks the grave with laurels-she forsakes Not e'en in death; but sheds around the tomb
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