| |
| FARE thee well! and if for ever, | |
| Still for ever, fare thee well: | |
| Even though unforgiving, never | |
| ’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. | |
| |
| Would that breast were bared before thee | 5 |
| Where thy head so oft hath lain, | |
| While that placid sleep came o’er thee | |
| Which thou ne’er canst know again: | |
| |
| Would that breast, by thee glanced over, | |
| Every inmost thought could show! | 10 |
| Then thou wouldst at last discover | |
| ’T was not well to spurn it so. | |
| |
| Though the world for this commend thee— | |
| Though it smile upon the blow, | |
| Even its praises must offend thee, | 15 |
| Founded on another’s woe: | |
| |
| Though my many faults defaced me, | |
| Could no other arm be found, | |
| Than the one which once embraced me, | |
| To inflict a cureless wound? | 20 |
| |
| Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; | |
| Love may sink by slow decay, | |
| But by sudden wrench, believe not | |
| Hearts can thus be torn away: | |
| |
| Still thine own its life retaineth, | 25 |
| Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; | |
| And the undying thought which paineth | |
| Is—that we no more may meet. | |
| |
| These are words of deeper sorrow | |
| Than the wail above the dead; | 30 |
| Both shall live, but every morrow | |
| Wake us from a widow’d bed. | |
| |
| And when thou wouldst solace gather, | |
| When our child’s first accents flow, | |
| Wilt thou teach her to say ‘Father!’ | 35 |
| Though his care she must forego? | |
| |
| When her little hands shall press thee, | |
| When her lip to thine is press’d, | |
| Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, | |
| Think of him thy love had bless’d! | 40 |
| |
| Should her lineaments resemble | |
| Those thou never more may’st see, | |
| Then thy heart will softly tremble | |
| With a pulse yet true to me. | |
| |
| All my faults perchance thou knowest, | 45 |
| All my madness none can know; | |
| All my hopes, where’er thou goest, | |
| Wither, yet with thee they go. | |
| |
| Every feeling hath been shaken; | |
| Pride, which not a world could bow, | 50 |
| Bows to thee—by thee forsaken, | |
| Even my soul forsakes me now: | |
| |
| But ’tis done—all words are idle— | |
| Words from me are vainer still; | |
| But the thoughts we cannot bridle | 55 |
| Force their way without the will. | |
| |
| Fare thee well! thus disunited, | |
| Torn from every nearer tie, | |
| Sear’d in heart, and lone, and blighted, | |
| More than this I scarce can die. | 60 |
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