The Desolated

By Hattie Boomer Barber, Godey’s Lady’s Book and Magazine, November 1859

Too late I learned to prize thy worth,
Too late thy faithful heart did prove;
And now through all this desert earth
I’d journey pilgrim for such love.
But I shall never meet again
That form my fickleness hath slain;
Beneath the stars, so coldly bright,
He sleeps the dreamless sleep to-night.

Sadly, I often linger here
Till midnight slumbers on the hill,
And pour the unavailing tear,
Hopeless and unavailing still.
His heart will never know again
The bitterness of human pain;
And, envious of the unconscious rest,
My weary brow his grave has press’d.

They deem me heartless, still, and cold
As when my smile was false to thee;
But wasting grief, with tortuous fold,
Has wound around the heart so free.
Oh, might my sorrows pray thee now
To seal forgiveness on this brow,
I’d drown in tears a life of pain,
To win thy love’s pure faith again!

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