The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/A Sketch

A Sketch
[Extracted from a manuscript poem.]

Young Harwald's burning coal-black eye, And clustering locks of raven dye— That o'er his lofty forehead hung, In thick neglected masses flung,— Contrasted strangely with the cheek So wan, so sunken, and so pale,— Save when the hectic's transient streak Pass'd over it—and told a tale Of silent suffering and decay, That wore the springs of life away.

“Scarce five and twenty years,” he said, “The light of heaven has round me shed; But these few years of woe and crime, Have done the lingering work of time. I was a spoil'd and wayward boy, In infancy my father's toy; Each wild caprice, each childish whim, Was humour'd and indulged by him; Until my passions, unrestrain'd, A fearful empire o'er me gain'd; And in this form, so changed, decay'd, Behold the wreck that they have made.

“Thou knowest now what I have been, And what I am:—but no, unseen, Unknown, forever, must remain The dreary loneliness,—the pain Of blighted hopes, remorse's sting, And all the vulture forms that cling Around this heart, where they were nursed, Till they have render'd it accursed!

“Nay, nay! speak not to me of peace, Of pardoning love, and heavenly grace; My callous heart is scorch'd and sear, It has naught now to hope or fear. It may be, in my days of youth, Before my heart was warp'd from truth, Thy words had not been vain—but now The mark of Cain is on my brow! Ay! spurn me from thee, if thou wilt— 'T is just—this hand is red with guilt; And 't is not meet that it should clasp, With one so pure, in friendly grasp.

“I could not weep—no, not one tear, Though it might change my final sentence: I feel it—it is written here— And my scorch'd heart is waste and drear With vain remorse, but no repentance. It is too late!—the time of grace, So vainly offer'd, now is spent; There is no longer left a place, Where I might turn me, and repent. There is a God! I doubt it not— Though I have scorn'd his holy name— 'T is written where no hand can blot Those characters of living flame. “No!—I have scoff'd at things above, Have spurn'd a Saviour's proffer'd love, Have made a mockery of faith, And hopes, beyond the power of death— But never, in my wildest hour, My heart has disbelieved His power!

“No!—I have strove to think, in vain, That it was superstition's chain. I knew he lived!—yet dared his wrath, Defied his vengeance and his death: But never, save in one dark hour, Hath this parch'd lip denied his name— For when I would have mock'd his power, My mother's form before me came, With that same look she used to wear, When she had knelt for me in prayer. I know not, if I yet believe, What you as sacred truths receive; But I have felt, when near my bed, Thy lips the word of truth have read,— And memory has recall'd the sigh, That bore her last faint prayer on high,— That there must be some soothing charm, Some power, in what could thus disarm The scenes of death and suffering Of half the anguish of their sting.”



At length, he felt that there was yet Some respite from the gnawing pain, That, like a burning brand, had set Its impress on his heart and brain. He was not happy—but despair Had soften'd into sadness now— And lingering nights of tears and prayer, And days of penitential woe,— For time misspent, and hours of folly, For passions high, and deeds of ill,— Had brought a soften'd melancholy, And hope that there was mercy still. He felt that yet his heart had ties To bind him to the bright green earth, And that although for him must rise No more the joyous voice of mirth, There still might be an hour of peace, When life and woe at once should cease.