Remorse.

A poem by John Hartley

None ever knew I had wronged her,
That secret she kept to the end.
None knew that our ties had been stronger,
Than such as should bind friend to friend.
Her beauty and innocence gave her
Such charms as are lavished on few;
And vain was my earnest endeavour
To resist, - though I strove to be true.

She had given her heart to my keeping, -
'Twas a treasure more precious than gold;
And I guarded it, waking or sleeping,
Lest a strange breath should make it grow cold.
And I longed to be tender, yet honest, -
Alas! loved, - where to love was a sin, -
And passion was deaf to the warning,
Of a still small voice crying within.

I feasted my eyes on her beauty, -
I ravished my ears with her voice, -
And I felt as her bosom rose softly,
That my heart had at last found its choice.
'Twas a wild gust of passion swept o'er us, -
Just a flash of tumultuous bliss; -
Then life's sunlight all vanished before us,
And we stood by despair's dark abyss.

'Tis past, - and the green grass grows over,
The grave that hides her and our shame;
None ever knew who was her lover,
For her lips never uttered his name.
But at night when the city is sleeping,
I steal with a tremulous tread,
And spend the dark solemn hours weeping,
O'er the grave of the deeply wronged dead.