She hath perill'd life and fame
Upon an all desperate game;
What availeth now her claim
On the false and fled?
Not him only hath she lost—
All the spirit treasured most
Has its lustre shed.
Let the false one cross the main,
If she could believe again.
After hours may yet restore
To the cheek the rose it wore,
And, as it has smiled before,
So the lip will smile.
Let them be however bright,
Never will they wear the light
Of their native isle.
Trusting, happy were they then—
Such they cannot be again.
Strange the heart's emotions are,
How from out of its despair
Will it summon strength to bear
Desperate wrong and woe!
But such strength is as the light
Seen upon the grave by night—
There is death below:
And the very gleam that flashes
Kindles from the heart's sweet ashes.
Maiden! gazing o'er the sea,
Wistfully, how wistfully!—
Thine such weary doom must be—
Thine the weary heart.
Woe for confidence misplaced,
For affections run to waste,
And for hopes that part—
Leaving us their farewell word,
One for ever-jarring chord.
There the Cretan maiden stands,
Wringing her despairing hands,
Lonely on the lonely sands—
'Tis a woman's lot:
Only let her heart be won,
And her summer hour is done—
Soon she is forgot;
Sad she strays by life's bleak shore,
Loving, but beloved no more!
L. E. L.
