2
the story of two lives.
When first this terror all my soul o'ercame,
I sate with her, the lady of my name.
'Mid this convulsion of all Time and Space
How strange to think of that familiar face!
The haughty features and the large bright eyes,
So keenly steadfast in their cold surprise.
Her jewelled fingers, white and thin, turned o'er
The journal of the day—no more! no more!
It all returns, the words are burning here,
And fall like molten lead upon my ear.
I sate with her, the lady of my name.
'Mid this convulsion of all Time and Space
How strange to think of that familiar face!
The haughty features and the large bright eyes,
So keenly steadfast in their cold surprise.
Her jewelled fingers, white and thin, turned o'er
The journal of the day—no more! no more!
It all returns, the words are burning here,
And fall like molten lead upon my ear.
She read with languid, slow, indifferent tone,
Calm as a child, who throws in, one by one,
Pebbles, deep down into some mighty lake,
Reckless what stormy echoes they may wake.
Sudden she spoke, half pity, half disdain—
'Poor thing, how much she must have borne of pain!
Found dead, none knew her home, her name, her age;
One of those outcasts!" . . . rustled here the page,
Scorned by the dainty hand, the proud lip curled
As she read on: "Poor outcast of the world!
If killed by grief, disease, or hunger, none
Would ever know, for she had died, alone;
Calm as a child, who throws in, one by one,
Pebbles, deep down into some mighty lake,
Reckless what stormy echoes they may wake.
Sudden she spoke, half pity, half disdain—
'Poor thing, how much she must have borne of pain!
Found dead, none knew her home, her name, her age;
One of those outcasts!" . . . rustled here the page,
Scorned by the dainty hand, the proud lip curled
As she read on: "Poor outcast of the world!
If killed by grief, disease, or hunger, none
Would ever know, for she had died, alone;
