(Written in her fifteenth year.)
They told me of her history — her love
Was a neglected flame, which had consumed
The vase wherein it kindled. O how fraught
With bitterness is unrequited love!
To know that we have cast life's hope away
On a vain shadow!
Hers was a gentle passion, quiet, deep,
As a woman's love should be,
All tenderness and silence, only known
By the soft meaning of a downcast eye,
Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts;
A sigh, scarce heard; a blush, scarce visible,
Alone may give it utterance. — Love is
A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart,
When felt, as only woman love can feel!
Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower
Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked fountain;
And changeless as the cypress's green leaves;
And like them, sad! She nourished
Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed
A passion unconfessed, till he she loved
Was wedded to another. — Then she grew
Moody and melancholy; one alone
Had power to soothe her in her wanderings,
Her gentle sister; — But that sister died,
And the unhappy girl was left alone,
A maniac . — She would wander far, and shunned
Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt
Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her
Was as a home.