This page has been validated.
30
I AM COME BUT YOUR SPIRITS TO RAISE.
She stands before her mirror, it is her wedding day,
But she hath flung aside in haste her desolate array;
Down on the ground her bridal wreath is dash'd in bitter scorn—
That hour's impassion'd agony, alas! it must be borne.
And long years are before her, long, weary, wasting years;
Though tears grow heavy on the lash, she must suppress those tears;
The past must be forgotten, and 'tis the past that gives
The truest and loveliest light in which the future lives.
Such is a common history, in this our social state,
Where destiny and nature contend in woman's fate;
To waste her best affections, to pine, to be forgot,
To droop beneath an outward smile—such is woman's lot.
