Poems (Douglas)/The Betrayed

by Sarah Parker Douglas

The Betrayed.

Day's glad orb was brightly flinging
 O'er creation joy and light,
From earth's fostering bosom bringing
 All of life that's pure and bright;
Summer breezes, softly sighing,
 Through an open casement played,
Where a fair young girl lay dying,
 Lone, and lovely, and betrayed.

But the breeze, so soft and fragrant,
 Could to her no comfort yield,
For the life blood, cold and stagnant,
 Felt as if to ice congeal'd;
And the beams which woke the blossom,
 Making glad the summer air,
Only mocked her withered bosom,
 And her brow of pain and care:

But her days and nights of mourning
 Fast approached that final close,
When the "dust to dust returning,"
 Rests in deep and still repose.
Lo! a stranger bending o'er her,
 Wipes the death dews from her brow—
But the light grows dim before her,
 And her breath is fainter now.

One small hand of snow's reposing
 On her slowly heaving breast,
And her languid lids are closing,
 As by heavy weight oppressed;
Soft the pale, pale lips are parted,
 Fervent breathings issue there,
And the name of the false-hearted
 Mingles with that dying prayer.

Where is he who so beguiled her,
 Lured her girlish feet to roam,
And, with fondest passion, wiled her
 From her widowed mother's home?
Fled, and left her there to languish,
 In a land where strangers dwell,
Where her cup o'erflowed with anguish,
 And her wounded spirit fell;

For the dreams she fondly cherished,
 Bright with honour and with pride,
With a sudden shock had perished,
 And her heart within her died.
Sorrow's with'ring hand soon brought her
 To the bed of pain and grief';
But her deep affliction taught her
 Where her heart should seek relief.

Low the child of error bent her
 Where no misery vainly sues,
And that glorious hope was sent her
 That all fear of death subdues;
And her sin-sick soul was healed,
 For she poured her heart in prayer—
And she found a balm in Gilead,
 And a kind Physician there

For a spirit bowed and broken.
 Her young heart could now rejoice,
For she felt the Spirit's token,
 And she knew that "still small voice."
Now, what visions round her gather!
 Fancy wings it o'er the deep
To the cottage of her mother,
 Where she sees her kneel and weep.

Yes! she hears her prayers ascending
 For her dear and hapless child,
While the names are humbly blending
 Of the spoiler and the spoiled;
And she hears her fondly sighing
 Purest blessings on her head,
And it cheers her hour of dying,
 When all earthly joys are fled.

Peace! it is the last sad feeling—
 Soon the weary heart lies still,
'Tis the spirit gentle stealing
 Far away from earthly ill.
Now 'tis done, the struggle's ended,
 And the freed soul wings its flight,
By celestial guards attended,
 To the realms of endless light.