A WOMAN’S HEART
What mystery!
It is to me a most strange questioning,
That man would hold what hearts he captivates
But for a little while,—then puffs them off,
As one by one they in his estimation wane,
And turns his mind to other victories,
Nor ever cares how infinite they are,—
Yea, like the proud Atilla doth he stand,
Who counts his victims captured by the sword,
And then, with conquest filled, whets o’er his steel
And, never sated, sighs for subjects more:
Yet woman, with her heart so guileless true,
Would hold but one, and him thereto she’d cling
Through life or death, and keep her virgin soul,
In memory of him, e’er spotless and unstained
By taint of foreign love.