These verses embody the last thoughts
recorded in the Journal of a young lady
of a village on the banks of the St.
Lawrence, who was found dead in her
chamber on a bright June morning of
186—, and was supposed to have committed
suicide during the night.
Henceforth a wanderer,
Hie thee, my soul,
Over life’s frozen waste,
Haste to thy goal.
O never again
Shall the down of sweet rest
Pillow thy weariness,
Spirit unblest!
No fair land of promise
Thy vision can reach;
No sunshine, no music,
No glory of speech.
Regrets and reproaches
Are idle and weak,
And the insult of pity
Brings shame to the cheek.
Farewell, ruined world!—
In the depth of star spaces
There may be sweet slumber,
And love-beaming faces.
There must be some spot
In this Universe wide,
Where a poor wounded dovelet
May haste to and hide.
The raven has flown
To his perch through the gloom,
And the death-watch is calling
His mate in my room.
The wail of the winds,
And the rapid’s loud roar,
Have a weirdness and terror
Felt never before.
A gray mist has settled
On land and on sea,
And night dews are falling,
My spirit, on thee!
When daylight is gone,
And the glimmer of stars,
Like a ghost at the casement,
Looks in through the bars,
It is time to disrobe,
And to kneel down and weep,
To forgive and forget,—
It is time now to sleep!