Poem by Alaric Alexander Watts

A Woman's Last Song

'Tis now that softening hour
When love hath deepest power,
To stir the fond heart with its dreams of delight;
 When even the sickening thrill
Of hope deferred is still,
And the sunset of feeling grows golden and bright.
Oh believe me then in this,
Though, in moments of bliss,
 Every pulse of thy heart found a response in mine;
 When the storm upon us came,
 I may merit thy blame,
But, so sweet was our sorrow, I could not repine.
 Forgive me if I deemed
 Fate kinder than it seemed,
 If I smiled at the world and its wildest alarms;
 If I inly blessed the grief
 That bade thee seek relief
In the loving and cherishing pale of my arms.
 Was loss of wealth severe
When a fond one was near
To soothe thee, and make thee a Crœsus in love?
 Or vexations all must bear,
 Worth a thought or a care,
 Which a kiss, and thou'st owned it, a kiss could remove?
 What are life's petty ills,
 Its hectics or its chills,
 Can they weaken affection or wither its flowers?
 No; to hearts with feeling warm,
 Love's the bow of the storm,
 That grows broader and brighter the faster it showers.
 Thus will it ever be,
 On the world's troubled sea,
 When two fond ones are cleaving in concert their way;
Though clouds sometimes may hide
 Them, and tempests divide,
 They'll be nearer than e'er when the rack drives away.
In life's genial spring,
As on Pleasure's light wing
Through her bowers of enchantment we joyously roved;
 With feelings, hopes and fears,
 Far too deep for our years,
 In that spring-burst of sunshine we met and we loved!
 Thou wert then of an age
 When the stormy passions rage
 More wildly the harsher earth's wise ones reprove;
Pride and gentleness combined,
 In thy deep heart were shrined;
The softness and fire of the eagle and dove!
 Though Fortune was unkind,
 To thy merits ever blind,
 Still thy soul could unstooping her malice endure;
 And what though thou wert thrown
 On this wide world alone,
 Did I love thee the less for being friendless and poor?
 What is wealth, what is wealth,
Could it purchase me health,
Or secure for us moments more blissful than those
 We together oft have passed,
 When even Fate's chilling blast
 Could not ruffle our own little heaven of repose!
 Surely not, surely not;
 Every grief was forgot,
 Whilst enfolded by thee on thy bosom I hung;
 And though tempests raged above,
 They were harmless to love,
 For the wilder the ruin the closer we clung.
But the sun has looked his last,
 And the day is fading fast,
 And night's shades are o'erwhelming my heart and my song;
Fare thee well, a long farewell;
 I have broken the spell
 That has bound me to earth and its witcheries too long!

1. Napoleon's Dream
2. To a Child Blowing Bubbles
3. Inscription
4. The Death of Pompey the Great
5. To Octavia, the Infant Daughter of the Late John Larking, esq.

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