miscellaneous poems.
109
To turn from passion's fervent vow, and struggle to forget;
And this is woman's destiny—a life of many cares—
A smiling brow above the gloom the aching bosom bears;
And her reward, a loneliness of spirit and of years.
No gentle hand her own to press—with sympathizing tears.
Her fair cheek pales beneath the chill the world hath round her cast;
Yet must she woman's fate fulfil, and struggle to the last;
E'en to the last—dissembler still—the tomb may not reveal
Her love's wild terror; nor despair break from the grave's cold seal.
And if I speak in bitterness—have I not deeply felt?
Aye, trembled—lest in tenderness my woman's heart should melt;
And this is woman's destiny—a life of many cares—
A smiling brow above the gloom the aching bosom bears;
And her reward, a loneliness of spirit and of years.
No gentle hand her own to press—with sympathizing tears.
Her fair cheek pales beneath the chill the world hath round her cast;
Yet must she woman's fate fulfil, and struggle to the last;
E'en to the last—dissembler still—the tomb may not reveal
Her love's wild terror; nor despair break from the grave's cold seal.
And if I speak in bitterness—have I not deeply felt?
Aye, trembled—lest in tenderness my woman's heart should melt;
