Classic Poem

I KNEW that it must be!
Yea, thou art changed — all worshipped as thou art —
Mourned as thou shalt be! sickness of the heart
Hath done its work on thee!

Thy dim eyes tell a tale —
A piteous tale of vigils; and the trace
Of bitter tears is on thy beauteous face, —
Beauteous, and yet so pale.

Changed Love! — but not alone!
I am not what they think me; though my cheek
Wear but its last year's furrow, though I speak
Thus in my natural tone.

The temple of my youth
Was strong in moral purpose; once I felt
The glory of Philosophy, and knelt
In the pure shrine of Truth.

I went into the storm,
And mocked the billows of the tossing sea:
I said to Fate, " What wilt thou do to me?
I have not harmed a worm!" —

Vainly the heart is steeled
In Wisdom's armour; let her burn her books!
I look upon them as the soldier looks
Upon his cloven shield.

Virtue and Virtue's rest —
How have they perished! through my onward course
Repentance dogs my footsteps: black Remorse
Is my familiar guest.

The glory and the glow
Of the world's loveliness have past away;
And Fate hath little to inflict to-day,
And nothing to bestow.

Is not the damning line
Of guilt and grief engraven on me now?
And the fierce passion which hath scathed thy brow —
Hath it not blasted mine?

No matter! I will turn
To the straight path of Duty; I have wrought
At last my wayward spirit to be taught
What it hath yet to learn.

Labour shall be my lot:
My kindred shall be joyful in my praise;
And Fame shall twine for me in after days
A wreath I covet not:

And, if I cannot make,
Dearest, thy hope my hope, thy trust my trust,
Yet will I study to be good and just
And blameless, for thy sake.

Thou may'st have comfort yet!
Whate'er the source from which those waters glide,
Thou hast found healing mercy in their tide; —
Be happy, and forget.

Forget me, and farewell;
But say not that in me new hopes and fears,
Or absence, or the lapse of gradual years,
Will break thy memory's spell:

Indelibly, within,
All I have lost is written; and the theme
Which silence whispers to my thought and dream
Is sorrow still, — and sin.