  Life’s deep afflictions not alone demand Devout submission to th’ Almighty’s will, The flower nursed by dew, by breezes fanned, Yet may the slow-corroding canker kill, While all around it smiles, it fadeth still; Such is the thankless heart which—pleasure-cloyed— Turns from surrounding good to fancied ill, And forms within itself a cheerless void ’Mid blessings unacknowledged, pleasures unenjoyed. Oh! deem ye not them sufferers alone Whom poverty consumes, or cares oppress, Who mourn o’er health departed, hopes o’erthrown, Or—severed from a parent’s fond caress— Find the world changed into a wilderness; As deep the desolation of a mind (With all to cheer it, and with all to bless) That, to its own self-fostered gloom resigned, Rejects the happiness God bade it seek and find. My parents, faithful soldiers of the Cross, Had o’er successive offspring closed the tomb, And—ere my infant heart could know its loss— They too had sunk beneath the mortal doom,— My life, in sorrow passed, commenced in gloom. Yet friends were left; the patriarch of our line For my sake would a parent’s cares resume, And his mild consort, then in life’s decline, As she had watched my father’s youth would watch o’er mine. With tenderness did they their charge fulfil, In the retirement of a peaceful spot; But ah! not theirs the strength to curb the will, To train Christ’s soldier for a trying lot. Offences gently chidden—and forgot, The wavering denial, weak delay, And threat—by punishment succeeded not, Marred in the morn the promise of the day, The Christian child’s first lesson should be to obey. Cruel, misjudging tenderness! how soon The plant by weakness nursed bore fruit in woe! The branch which love with gentle hand might prune, Reserved to fall ’neath God’s chastising blow! Can they the toils of warfare undergo Whose childhood knows no wish ungratified? Oh! check the first advances of the foe, Stay at the source the quickly-swelling tide,— From reason’s dawn must thou for good or ill decide. Time fleeted by,—I was a child no more, But with my growth, alas! the evil grew. I loved creation’s wonders to explore, But on the world within ne’er fixed my view. Eager the paths of science to pursue, By praise encouraged, and by pride impelled, The charmÈd task each day would I renew, And, while my bosom with vainglory swelled, Measured myself by those I deemed that I excelled. And was I happy? no, the unbridled mind May soar too freely through the fields of air, In its own liberty a bondage find; My spirits were not bound by earthly care, No loss had I to weep, no frowns to bear. My own enjoyment was my single aim, I sought it upon earth, nor found it there, Satiety and disappointment came,— “Oh, that I were a man to win the meed of fame!” I longed for something lofty—undefined— A kindred soul to mingle with my own, A destiny more worthy of a mind Now amidst uncongenial spirits thrown. By friends surrounded—yet I stood alone: Self was the gilded idol I adored; Had I Christ’s strength and my own weakness known, Soon had that idol felt the gospel sword, Low levelled in the dust before my conquering Lord! Yet was I ardent in religious cause, Impiety I scorned—denounced—despised; No warrior his holy weapon draws With zeal more fervent than I exercised When faithlessness in others I chastised; My spirit kindled at the martyr’s tale, There were my dreams of glory realized; Oh! where their faith prevailed would mine prevail, Could soul so ardent in the fiery trial fail? I felt not then that in life’s loneliest way A glorious warfare may the Christian wage; Humbly to honour, meekly to obey, In charity’s mild duties to engage, And gently soothe the fretfulness of age,— Such is the sacred post to woman given; Home is her battle-field; the strife must rage Till sin and self are from their empire driven: Will not the victor rest with martyr-saints in heaven? With weariness I viewed my rural life, Hid from a world in which I hoped to shine,— Better the press of care, the toil of strife, Than thus in an insipid calm to pine, Watching my aged guardian’s slow decline; Youth was, I deemed, the season for delight, E’en should its sorrows with its joys be mine, The deepest shadows mark the brightest light, Dim is the hour when both in one dull hue unite! Sin may invite the soul; by discontent The wayward soul herself inviteth sin; I sought a trial—God the trial sent. One formed a colder heart than mine to win, Lighted the soul-consuming torch within: Montoro sought my hand, his lips revealed His love; I felt another life begin,— To fervent love must self his empire yield,— No, for that love itself was selfishness concealed! What though Montoro’s highborn parents frowned Upon his union with a lowly maid; Though upon means already slender found, A second burden thus would now be laid,— Although with darkened sight, and strength decayed, My widowed grandsire claimed a daughter’s care,— What was it to a soul by passion swayed? His lonely dwelling now must strangers share, No daughter’s voice to raise the hymn, or join the prayer. ’Twas on a summer morn I left my home, Buoyant with hope and long-sought happiness, Yet did a feeling of misgiving come When, folded in the old man’s last caress, He in his trembling accents strove to bless The child who left him lonely, aged, and blind E’en then my bosom would the thought oppress, “Deserter from the post by God assigned, Wilt thou again on earth a love so faithful find?” ’Twas but a transitory thought; my soul Exulted in an earthly paradise; Impetuous hope had reached its wished-for goal, And I could bear to see the tear-drops rise Within those dear and venerable eyes, Could joyous from my childhood’s home depart; For him I loved too great no sacrifice, Care had no weight, and poverty no smart; He was the treasure of my soul, the idol of my heart! Time roused me slowly from my golden dream, Love, born in smiles, survived to mourn in tears; Earth’s brightest blessings are not what they seem; Beneath the sober influence of years Fancy’s gay blossoms fade, and truth appears. When word or frown impatient care betrayed, My wounded soul could not disguise her fears That now my lord with colder feelings weighed And felt the sacrifice which blinded love had made. And what I felt I spoke; my untamed soul The task of patient love had yet to learn, Each word, each look, each feeling to control, Harshness with meek submission to return, By charms more lasting, love more lasting earn, This to my spirit was a task unknown; My lip would quiver, and my cheek would burn, By glance reproachful and upbraiding tone I marred Montoro’s happiness—and crushed my own. Hardships and cares, by eager love defied, Heavy upon my weary spirit pressed,— The struggle between poverty and pride,— Ill could my temper bear the bitter test, Exhausted hope could find no place of rest; I, for the love of one, had all resigned, And now my heart in bitterness confessed, Though faithful love might yet remain behind, It was no more the light of joy, the sunbeam of the mind. Yet I content, nay, happy might have proved, Could I have meekly stooped the yoke to bear, Nor sought perfection in the man I loved; But I had hoped a heaven on earth to share,— Too ardent hope rebounds into despair. When pride or passion fix the nuptial chain, Time must the gilding from the fetters wear,— Love’s golden links alone unchanged remain, Hallowed by faith, to be renewed in Heaven again. I now approach the crisis of my woes. One, known in early life, again I met;— With proud disdain I had regarded those Who—low by birth, by nature lower—yet Their upstart confidence in riches set; And could I calmly Agnes now behold Her brow encircled with a coronet, Endure her haughty smile, her greeting cold, Who owed her triumph solely to the power of gold? I felt the press of poverty, and she Had only to desire—and to possess; Yet why should sight of her prosperity Add to my cup one drop of bitterness? Her luxuries made not my comforts less. I know it now, though my deluded heart Would then have scorned its weakness to confess; Envy had fixed within his venomed dart, And love had no sweet balm to heal the wounded part. Hate’s ready weapon, ridicule, I sought, The lightest word may give the deepest wound,— Montoro’s sparkling wit the impulse caught, His jests, by malice circulated round, Too soon a fatal destination found. Words are but breath, but breath may kindle flame Destined to level cities with the ground! My God, from Thy dread wrath the judgment came, But oh! my guilt, my wretchedness were still the same! A fatal sword hung o’er my head unknown, Yawned at my feet a precipice unseen! One morn Montoro had gone forth alone, Methought there was a sadness in his mien, And tender had his words at parting been; A long fond kiss upon our babe he prest, Still in her cradle slumbering serene; The tide of love gushed warmer in my breast, His glance recalled the hours when first that love was blest. Thrice the accumulating mound of sand Marked in my glass the hours that passed away, I turned it listlessly with weary hand, And marvelled at Montoro’s long delay: Heavy with mist and rain advanced the day; My babe awoke and wept, her cry of fear I strove to soothe with melancholy lay, And bore her, sobbing, to the casement near, And bade her infant accents call her father dear. Upon the dreary prospect forth I gazed; Poured from the lowering sky incessant rain, The trees their dark and dripping branches raised, Reflected dimly on the flooded plain, Trickled the raindrops down the misty pane; The wind in sudden gusts our dwelling shook, Then sank, in mournful murmurs to complain; With heavy heart the casement I forsook, While to my early home her flight sad memory took. “Where is the happiness I thought to find When forth I went, a young rejoicing bride? Springs grief from earthly trials, or a mind For ever restless and dissatisfied? Montoro’s love outweighed the world beside,— Is it his wife’s misfortune or her sin That petty cares so oft our hearts divide? Oh, that another era might begin, And life’s storms but enhance the holy peace within! “My childhood’s friend I in his age forsook,— The old man sleeps beneath the grassy sod! To frown of care is changed the joyous look With which Montoro once life’s garden trod; God gave me life,—I have not lived to God! My threefold duties I neglected see,— Great God! suspend awhile thy chastening rod! Oh, come, my husband, life henceforth shall be Devoted unto piety and thee!” He came—but oh! how did Montoro come? Why did I live to look on his return? Bleeding and pale they bore him to his home. Life glimmered faintly,—I had yet to learn The hopeless grief that must for ever burn Within the widow’s desolated breast: Enough—mine eyes have seen Montoro’s urn; One tie is left—one treasure still possest,— The shadow of despair is cast on all the rest! There is no wretchedness where sin is not,— Religion may relieve the darkest woes, All—save remorse—be softened or forgot— But where can she—the guilty—find repose, Whose anguish from her own transgression flows? My pride—my envy bade Montoro die, His life embittered, stained with blood its close! Aye, weep ye who can weep—but I—but I My heart weeps tears of blood, and yet mine eyes are dry! |
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