Has some false hand dared thy rich hopes to crush,
And made the sunlight of thy dreaming dim?
Then every sob of grief and sorrow hush—
Sybil could feel but scorn for such as him."
Ay, scorn for him—but would this make thee love
Thy blighted life the more, that thy proud heart
Found refuge in disdain? It would but prove
How deep the wound, how fell the laden dart.
But no, I mourn not for the love of one,
But for the shadows of distrust that cling
To every show of virtue, till the sun
Of life's sweet hope is darkened by its wing."
"But is it just or generous thus to think
The world is naught but frailty and deceit,
Because one hand hath rudely broke the link
That bound thy love to him in fetters sweet?
My gentle sister, thou should be too true
To let distrust darken thy sunny way;
For still some hand around thy feet will strew
Such flowers of love as fade not in a day."
"'Tis well thou thinkest gently of the world,
But talk no more of its weak faith to me;
My heart's sweet dream is broken—ever furled
My spirit's drooping pinion; and to be
A skeptic of earth's earnestness and truth
Even hath a bitter pleasure; though so stern
It seems to thee that the full heart of youth
Hath laid its treasures in love's crumbling urn."
"Miriam, my sister, bitterly I grieve
That thou shouldst throw life's purest gems aside,
And smile in very mockery to give
Their richness at the shrine of chilling pride.
