American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

MIRIAM APPEALS TO THE HEART OF PISO.

(FROM THE SAME.)

PISO.

Bold maiden! While thou art safe, go hence; for in his might The tiger wakes within me!

MIRIAM.

Be it so. He can but rend me where I stand. And here, Living or dying, will I raise my voice In a firm hope! The God that brought me here Is round me in the silent air. On me Falleth the influence of an unseen Eye! And in the strength of secret, earnest prayer, This awful consciousness doth nerve my frame. Thou man of evil and ungoverned soul! My father thou mayst slay! Flames will not fall From heaven to scorch and wither thee! The earth Will gape not underneath thy feet! and peace, Mock, hollow, seeming peace, may shadow still Thy home and hearth! But deep within thy breast A fierce, consuming fire shall ever dwell. Each night shall ope a gulf of horrid dreams To swallow up thy soul. The livelong day That soul shall yearn for peace and quietness, As the hart panteth for the water brooks, And know that even in death —is no repose! And this shall be thy life! Then a dark hour Will surely come—

PISO.

Maiden, be warn'd! All this I know. It moves me not.

MIRIAM.

Nay, one thing more Thou knowest not. There is on all this earth — Full as it is of young and gentle hearts — One man alone that loves a wretch like thee; And he, thou say'st, must die! All other eyes Do greet thee with a cold or wrathful look, Or, in the baseness of their fear, shun thine; And he whose loving glance alone spake peace,

Thou say'st must die in youth! Thou know'st not yet The deep and bitter sense of loneliness, The throes and achings of a childless heart, Which yet will all be thine! Thou know'st not yet What 't is to wander 'mid thy spacious halls, And find them desolate! wildly to start From thy deep musings at the distant sound Of voice or step like his, and sink back sick—Ay! sick at heart —with dark remembrances! To dream thou seest him as in years gone by, When in his bright and joyous infancy, His laughing eyes amid thick curls sought thine, And his soft arms were twined around thy neck, And his twin rosebud lips just lisp'd thy name — Yet feel in agony 't is but a dream! Thou know'st not yet what 't is to lead the van Of armies hurrying on to victory, Yet, in the pomp and glory of that hour, Sadly to miss the well-known snowy plume, Whereon thine eyes were ever proudly fix'd In battle-field! —to sit, at midnight deep, Alone within thy tent —all shuddering —When, as the curtain'd door lets in the breeze, Thy fancy conjures up the gleaming arms And bright young hero-face of him who once Had been most welcome there! —and worst of all—

PISO.

It is enough! The gift of prophecy Is on thee, maid! A power that is not thine Looks out from that dilated, awful form — Those eyes deep flashing with unearthly light — And stills my soul. —My Paulus must not die! And yet —to give up thus the boon! —