Ingrate!—Never sure was maiden Wronged so foul as I. With grief My true breast is overladen— Tears afford me no relief.— Every nerve is strained and aching, And my very heart is breaking!
Love I him?—Thus scorned and slighted— Thrown, like worthless weed, apart— Hopes and feelings sear'd and blighted— Love him?—Yes, with all my heart! With a passion superhuman— Constancy, "thy name is woman."
Love nor time, nor mood, can fashion— Love?—Idolatry's the word To speak the broadest, deepest passion, Ever woman's heart hath stirr'd! Vain to still the mind's desires, Which consume like hidden fires!
Wreck'd and wretched, lost and lonely, Crush'd by grief's oppressive weight, With a prayer for Clifford only, I resign me to my fate. Chains that bind the soul I've proven Strong as they were iron-woven.
Deep the wo that fast is sending From my cheek its healthful bloom; Sad my thoughts, as willows bending O'er the borders of the tomb. Without Clifford not a blessing In the world is worth possessing.
Wealth!—a straw within the balance, Opposed to love 'twill kick the beam: Kindred—friendship—beauty—talents?— All to love as nothing seem; Weigh love against all else together, As solid gold against a feather.
Hope is flown—away disguises— Nought but death relief can give— For the love he little prizes Cannot cease and Julia live! Soon my thread of life will sever— Clifford, fare thee well—for ever!
THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF A DEPARTED FRIEND.
BY JOHN INMAN.