Part 18

HONOUR'S MARTYR.

The moon is full this winter night; The stars are clear, though few; And every window glistens bright With leaves of frozen dew.

The sweet moon through your lattice gleams, And lights your room like day; And there you pass, in happy dreams, The peaceful hours away!

While I, with effort hardly quelling The anguish in my breast, Wander about the silent dwelling, And cannot think of rest.

The old clock in the gloomy hall Ticks on, from hour to hour; And every time its measured call Seems lingering slow and slower:

And, oh, how slow that keen-eyed star Has tracked the chilly gray! What, watching yet! how very far The morning lies away!

Without your chamber door I stand; Love, are you slumbering still? My cold heart, underneath my hand, Has almost ceased to thrill.

Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs, And drowns the turret bell, Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies Unheard, like my farewell!

To-morrow, Scorn will blight my name, And Hate will trample me, Will load me with a coward's shame-- A traitor's perjury.

False friends will launch their covert sneers; True friends will wish me dead; And I shall cause the bitterest tears That you have ever shed.

The dark deeds of my outlawed race Will then like virtues shine; And men will pardon their disgrace, Beside the guilt of mine.

For, who forgives the accursed crime Of dastard treachery? Rebellion, in its chosen time, May Freedom's champion be;

Revenge may stain a righteous sword, It may be just to slay; But, traitor, traitor,--from THAT word All true breasts shrink away!

Oh, I would give my heart to death, To keep my honour fair; Yet, I'll not give my inward faith My honour's NAME to spare!

Not even to keep your priceless love, Dare I, Beloved, deceive; This treason should the future prove, Then, only then, believe!

I know the path I ought to go I follow fearlessly, Inquiring not what deeper woe Stern duty stores for me.

So foes pursue, and cold allies Mistrust me, every one: Let me be false in others' eyes, If faithful in my own.

STANZAS.

I'll not weep that thou art going to leave me, There's nothing lovely here; And doubly will the dark world grieve me, While thy heart suffers there.

I'll not weep, because the summer's glory Must always end in gloom; And, follow out the happiest story-- It closes with a tomb!

And I am weary of the anguish Increasing winters bear; Weary to watch the spirit languish Through years of dead despair.

So, if a tear, when thou art dying, Should haply fall from me, It is but that my soul is sighing, To go and rest with thee.

MY COMFORTER.

Well hast thou spoken, and yet not taught A feeling strange or new; Thou hast but roused a latent thought, A cloud-closed beam of sunshine brought To gleam in open view.

Deep down, concealed within my soul, That light lies hid from men; Yet glows unquenched--though shadows roll, Its gentle ray cannot control-- About the sullen den.

Was I not vexed, in these gloomy ways To walk alone so long? Around me, wretches uttering praise, Or howling o'er their hopeless days, And each with Frenzy's tongue;--

A brotherhood of misery, Their smiles as sad as sighs; Whose madness daily maddened me, Distorting into agony The bliss before my eyes!

So stood I, in Heaven's glorious sun, And in the glare of Hell; My spirit drank a mingled tone, Of seraph's song, and demon's moan; What my soul bore, my soul alone Within itself may tell!