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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117612" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Sketch</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Young Harwald's burning coal-black eye,<br>And clustering locks of raven dye—<br>That o'er his lofty forehead hung,<br>In thick neglected masses flung,—<br>Contrasted strangely with the cheek<br>So wan, so sunken, and so pale,—<br>Save when the hectic's transient streak<br>Pass'd over it—and told a tale<br>Of silent suffering and decay,<br>That wore the springs of life away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Scarce five and twenty years,” he said,<br>“The light of heaven has round me shed;<br>But these few years of woe and crime,<br>Have done the lingering work of time.<br>I was a spoil'd and wayward boy,<br>In infancy my father's toy;<br>Each wild caprice, each childish whim,<br>Was humour'd and indulged by him;<br>Until my passions, unrestrain'd,<br>A fearful empire o'er me gain'd;<br>And in this form, so changed, decay'd,<br>Behold the wreck that they have made.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Thou knowest now what I have been,<br>And what I am:—but no, unseen,<br>Unknown, forever, must remain<br>The dreary loneliness,—the pain<br>Of blighted hopes, remorse's sting,<br>And all the vulture forms that cling<br>Around this heart, where they were nursed,<br>Till they have render'd it accursed!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“Nay, nay! speak not to me of peace,<br>Of pardoning love, and heavenly grace;<br>My callous heart is scorch'd and sear,<br>It has naught now to hope or fear.<br>It may be, in my days of youth,<br>Before my heart was warp'd from truth,<br>Thy words had not been vain—but now<br>The mark of Cain is on my brow!<br>Ay! spurn me from thee, if thou wilt—<br>'T is just—this hand is red with guilt;<br>And 't is not meet that it should clasp,<br>With one so pure, in friendly grasp.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“I could not weep—no, not one tear,<br>Though it might change my final sentence:<br>I feel it—it is written here—<br>And my scorch'd heart is waste and drear<br>With vain remorse, but no repentance.<br>It is too late!—the time of grace,<br>So vainly offer'd, now is spent;<br>There is no longer left a place,<br>Where I might turn me, and repent.<br>There is a God! I doubt it not—<br>Though I have scorn'd his holy name—<br>'T is written where no hand can blot<br>Those characters of living flame.<br>“No!—I have scoff'd at things above,<br>Have spurn'd a Saviour's proffer'd love,<br>Have made a mockery of faith,<br>And hopes, beyond the power of death—<br>But never, in my wildest hour,<br>My heart has disbelieved His power!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">“No!—I have strove to think, in vain,<br>That it was superstition's chain.<br>I knew he lived!—yet dared his wrath,<br>Defied his vengeance and his death:<br>But never, save in one dark hour,<br>Hath this parch'd lip denied his name—<br>For when I would have mock'd his power,<br>My mother's form before me came,<br>With that same look she used to wear,<br>When she had knelt for me in prayer.<br>I know not, if I yet believe,<br>What you as sacred truths receive;<br>But I have felt, when near my bed,<br>Thy lips the word of truth have read,—<br>And memory has recall'd the sigh,<br>That bore her last faint prayer on high,—<br>That there must be some soothing charm,<br>Some power, in what could thus disarm<br>The scenes of death and suffering<br>Of half the anguish of their sting.”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> * * * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At length, he felt that there was yet<br>Some respite from the gnawing pain,<br>That, like a burning brand, had set<br>Its impress on his heart and brain.<br>He was not happy—but despair<br>Had soften'd into sadness now—<br>And lingering nights of tears and prayer,<br>And days of penitential woe,—<br>For time misspent, and hours of folly,<br>For passions high, and deeds of ill,—<br>Had brought a soften'd melancholy,<br>And hope that there was mercy still.<br>He felt that yet his heart had ties<br>To bind him to the bright green earth,<br>And that although for him must rise<br>No more the joyous voice of mirth,<br>There still might be an hour of peace,<br>When life and woe at once should cease.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Elizabeth+Margaret+Chandler">Elizabeth Margaret Chandler</a> from <i>Poetical Works</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117612" data-title="A Sketch de Elizabeth Margaret Chandler" data-description="Young Harwald's burning coal-black eye,/And clustering locks of raven dye—/That o'er his lofty forehead hung,/In thick neglected masses flung,—/Contrasted strangely with the cheek/So wan, so sunken, and so pale,—/Save when the hectic's trans..."></div>
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