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The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 50, Pages 345-346
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PAST HOURS.
Ah, surely there are moments when thy heart
Must think of her it has so coldly banished;—
Does not my image to thy memory start,
Though all that made its earlier charm be vanished?
Do you not think of me sometimes at night,
When the dark hours are passing still and lonely,
The pale stars watching with their dreamy light,
And thou art with thy own hushed thoughts left only?
Do they not bring me back? Dost thou not say,
Perhaps this very moment she is weeping
Those bitter tears that pride subdues by day,
To wet the pillow that I keep from sleeping!
Does the still midnight waken no remorse,
No pity for the misery of thy making?
False as thou art—I could not wish thee worse
Than one sad midnight of my own awaking.
I hear thy voice, I look within thine eyes,—
Then start to think it is but an illusion;—
False as thy promise, fleeting as the ties
That bound me to thee with such vain delusion.
Then I recall thy words and looks, and think,
How could they wear such true, such tender seeming?—
I think till I can bear no more, and shrink,
And mock myself for all this idle dreaming.
How many words of thine I now recall,
Scarce noticed at the time when they were spoken;
Alas! how true love fondly treasures all
The slightest things, like some heart precious token.
I wish I could forget them—for they keep
Calm from my waking hours—rest from my pillow,
Like those uncertain restless winds that sweep,
Rising with their perpetual strife, the billow.
If weary of the weight upon my heart,
I struggle to be glad with vain endeavour;
How soon I sicken of such seeming part!
The spirits I would force are gone for ever.
If I am sad and weary, and fling by
The tasks in which I take my old delight no longer:
All other sorrows bring one sadness nigh,—
Life's cares are strong—but those of love are stronger.
Love has its part in every other thing,
All grief increasing and all joy impairing;
Death is the only hope, for death will bring
Rest to the heart, fevered with long despairing.
Ah, then, farewell, there is no more for me;
Those sunny looks that turn them on to-morrow;
I hope not, fear not, and but wish to be
Where the last shadow falls on life's last sorrow.
L. E. L.