'T is over! I have past the cruel test!
Methinks I carried well the mask of joy,
That frequent use had fitted to my face
Too closely to be shaken by the throb
Of a torn bosom. Yes, I chose the dove
To fasten at my breast this chain of gems,
A sign of peace within. Sad mockery!
The dove was all without, and formed of stone!
A heart that's breaking at another's bliss
Should burst without a groan; and mine I thank,
That every string has snapped so silently,
Quivered and bled unseen.
Ye beauteous flowers,
Behold your sisters in the cast-off wreath,
That, pale and worthless, withers at my feet!
They speak of her who wore them—Ye, of one
Who grew beside her: Yet, the dew of grief
Ne'er touched her bloom.
My silent lute, farewell!!
Thy broken strings will never be restored.
When next thy mistress sweeps the tuneful chord,
May seraph voices mingle with the notes
Where sorrow claims no strain!
Poor, sickly pearls!
How dim and pale ye look, trailed useless out!
The hue of death is cast o'er every thing;
And, vanity is marked on all I see,
On all! Oh, no! One blessed sign appears,
A precious emblem to the eye of Faith!
The holy cross, formed of these ocean gems.
Lo! what a sudden lustre they assume!
It came not from the deep! It is the smile
Of heaven upon the figure they show forth!
With this before me, shall not purer love
And higher hopes than feed on aught below
Lead home my wildered soul?
If Heaven will take
A heart that earth has crushed, form it anew,
And light it from on high, I offer mine,
Not without shame, that all things else were tried
Before the only balm.
Look down, O Thou,
Who wast at Cana! Bless the rite that's past!
Help me to put a wedding garment on
For the great marriage supper; and to wear
Thy choice of ornaments, while I await
The coming of the BRIDEGROOM!
