The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 11, No. 68, June, 1863: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and PoliticsVarious
Science
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 11, No. 68, June, 1863: A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
But I lift my eyes from Camilla's unpliant drapery to the red red rose
in her hair, and thence, naturally, to her silent face, and in that
instant ugly dress and red red rose fade out of my sight. What is it
that I see, with tearful tenderness and a nameless pain at the heart? A
young face deepened and drawn with suffering; dark, large eyes, whose
natural laughing light has been quenched in tears, yet shining still
with a distant gleam caught from the eternal fires. O still, pathetic
face! A sterner form than Time has passed and left his vestige there.
Happy little girl, playing among the flickering shadows of the
Rhine-land, who could not foresee the darker shadows that should settle
and never lift nor flicker from her heavy heart! Large, lambent eyes,
that might have been sweet, but now are only steadfast,--that may yet be
sweet, when they look to-night into a baby's cradle, but gazing now upon
a waiting audience, are only steadfast. Ah! so it is. Life has such hard
conditions, that every dear and precious gift, every rare virtue, every
pleasant facility, every genial endowment, love, hope, joy, wit,
sprightliness, benevolence, must sometimes be cast into the crucible to
distil the one elixir, patience. Large, lambent eyes, in which days and
nights of tears are petrified, steadfast eyes that are neither mournful
nor hopeful nor anxious, but with such unvoiced sadness in their depths
that the hot tears well up in my heart, what do you see in the waiting
audience? Not censure, nor pity, nor forgiveness, for you do not need
them,--but surely a warm human sympathy, since heart can speak to heart,
though the thin, fixed lips have sealed their secret well. Sad mother,
whose rose of life was crushed before it had budded, tender young lips
that had drunk the cup of sorrow to the dregs, while their cup of bliss
should hardly yet be brimmed for life's sweet spring-time, your
crumbling fanes and broken arches and prostrate columns lie not among
the ruins of Time. Be comforted of that. They bear witness of a more
pitiless Destroyer, and by this token I know there shall dawn a brighter
day. The God of the fatherless and the widow, of the worse than widowed
and fatherless, the Avenger of the Slaughter of the Innocents, be with
you, and shield and shelter and bless!
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