A Sorrow, wet with early tears
Yet bitter, had been long with me;
I wearied of this weight of years,
And would be free.
I tore my Sorrow from my heart,
I cast it far away in scorn;
Right joyful that we two could part—
Yet most forlorn.
I sought, (to take my Sorrow’s place,)
Over the world for flower or gem—
But she had had an ancient grace
Unknown to them.
I took once more with strange delight
My slighted Sorrow; proudly now,
I wear it, set with stars of light,
Upon my brow.
VERSE: THE LESSON OF THE WAR (1855)
The feast is spread through England
For rich and poor to-day;
Greetings and laughter may be there,
But thoughts are far away;
Over the stormy ocean,
Over the dreary track,
Where some are gone, whom England
Will never welcome back.
Breathless she waits, and listens
For every eastern breeze
That bears upon its bloody wings
News from beyond the seas.
The leafless branches stirring
Make many a watcher start;
The distant tramp of steed may send
A throb from heart to heart.
The rulers of the nation,
The poor ones at their gate,
With the same eager wonder
The same great news await.
The poor man’s stay and comfort,
The rich man’s joy and pride,
Upon the bleak Crimean shore
Are fighting side by side.
The bullet comes—and either
A desolate hearth may see;
And God alone to-night knows where
The vacant place may be!
The dread that stirs the peasant
Thrills nobles’ hearts with fear—
Yet above selfish sorrow
Both hold their country dear.
The rich man who reposes
In his ancestral shade,
The peasant at his ploughshare,
The worker at his trade,
Each one his all his perilled,
Each has the same great stake,
Each soul can but have patience,
Each heart can only break!