Poetry Archives

“Do I not feel?” The doubt is keen as steel.
Yea, I do feel—most exquisitely feel;
My heart can weep, when, from my downcast eye,
I chase the tear, and stem the rising sigh:
Deep buried there I close the rankling dart,
And smile the most when heaviest is my heart.
On this I act—whatever pangs surround,
’Tis magnanimity to hide the wound!
When all was new, and life was in its spring,
I lived an unloved, solitary thing;
Even then I learn’d to bury deep from day
The piercing cares that wore my youth away:
Even then I learn’d for others’ cares to feel;
Even then I wept I had not power to heal:
Even then, deep-sounding through the nightly gloom,
I heard the wretched’s groan, and mourn’d the wretched’s doom.
Who were my friends in youth?—The midnight fire—
The silent moonbeam, or the starry choir;
To these I ‘plain’d, or turn’d from outer sight,
To bless my lonely taper’s friendly light;
I never yet could ask, howe’er forlorn,
For vulgar pity mix’d with vulgar scorn;
The sacred source of woe I never ope,
My breast’s my coffer, and my God’s my hope.
But that I do feel, Time, my friend, will show,
Though the cold crowd the secret never know;
With them I laugh—yet, when no eye can see,
I weep for nature, and I weep for thee.
Yes, thou didst wrong me, … I fondly thought,
In thee I’d found the friend my heart had sought!
I fondly thought, that thou couldst pierce the guise,
And read the truth that in my bosom lies;
I fondly thought, ere Time’s last days were gone,
Thy heart and mine had mingled into one!
Yes—and they yet will mingle. Days and years
Will fly, and leave us partners in our tears:
We then shall feel that friendship has a power
To soothe affliction in her darkest hour;
Time’s trial o’er, shall clasp each other’s hand,
And wait the passport to a better land.

Thine

H.K. WHITE.

Half past Eleven o’clock at Night.