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Poem by Alaric Alexander Watts The Closing Scene Who can bring healing to her heart's despair, Her whole rich sum of happiness lies there! ~ CROLY. Pale is his cheek with deep, impassioned thought, Save when a feverish hectic crosses it, Flooding its lines with crimson. From beneath The long, dark fringes of its drooping lid Flash forth the fitful glances of his eye With an unearthly brightness. On that lid The swelling brow weighs heavily, as though Bursting with thought for utterance too intense! His lip is curled with something too of pride Which ill beseems the meekness and repose That should, at such an hour, within his heart, Spite of this world's vexations, be combined. 'Tis not disdain; for only those he loves Are near him now, with soft, low-whispered words Tendering heart-offered services, and watching, With fond inquietude, the couch on which His slender form reclines. What can it be?∔ Perchance some rooted memory of the past; Some dream of injured pride that fain would wreak Its force on dumb expression;∔some fierce wrong That his young soul hath suffered unappeased: But thoughts like these must be dispelled before That soul can plume its wings to part in peace. And now his glance is lifted to the face Of one who bends above him with an air Of fond solicitude, and props his head, With her own graceful arm, until at length The sliding pillow is replaced; but, ere His cheek may press on its uneven down, Her delicate hand hath smoothed it. Too well divineth he the voiceless woe That breathes in each unbidden sigh, and beams From her large, loving eyes! Too well he knows That grief and keen anxiety for him Have chased the rose from her once brilliant cheek. His quivering lips unclose, as if to pour The fond acknowledgments of duteous love In that sweet mourner's ear; but his parched tongue Its aid refuses. Gathering then each ray, Each vivid ray, of feeling from his heart Into a single focus, in his eye His inmost soul is glassed, and love, deep love, And grateful admiration, beam confessed In one wild, passionate glance! The gentle girl Basks her awhile in that full blaze, then stoops, And, hiding her pale face upon his breast, Murmurs sounds inarticulate but sweet As the low wail of summer's evening breath Amid the wind-harp's strings. Then bursts the tide Of woe that may no longer be repressed, Stirred from its source by chill, hope-withering fears, And from her charged 'lids big drops descend In swift succession. With more tremulous hand Clasps she the sufferer's neck. Upon his brow The damps of death are settling, and his eyes Grow fixed and meaningless. She marks the change With desperate earnestness; and staying even Her breath, that nothing may disturb the hush, Lays her wan cheek still closer to his heart, And listens, as its varying pulses move, Haply to catch a sound betokening life. It beats∔again∔another∔and another,∔ And now hath ceased for ever! What a shriek, A shrill and soul-appalling shriek bursts forth, When the full truth hath rushed upon her brain! Who may describe the rigidness of frame, The stony look of hopeless misery With which she hangs o'er that unmoving clay? Not I; my pencil hath no further power, So here I'll drop the Grecian painter's veil! Alaric Alexander Watts Alaric Alexander Watts's other poems:
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