The Prayer.
Oh! mother, whither do they lead
This wretched form, this drooping frame?
What means the white rose in my hair?
These jewels sure are not a dream.
Of wither'd leaves 'twere better far
The bridal chaplet had been wove—
Oh! mother, lead me back again;
I cannot love—I cannot love!
Look not for love—it is in vain!
Within this heart no more it dwells:
Unclasp the volume if thou wilt,
And ponder on the truth it tells.
Ah! dearest mother, do not seek
To warm to life a thing that dies,
Nor re-illume the flame, when once
The shrine, in hopeless ruin lies.
Not to the altar, mother—no,
I cannot kneel and speak that vow—
Oh! let me rend these hated gems,
And tear the white rose from my brow.
Nay, let the dark grave be my couch,
Of cypress leaves my bridal wreath,
And I will wed,—yes, gladly wed,
And clasp my welcome bridegroom, Death!
OCTAVIAN.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
← Back to The Southern Literary Messenger, Volume I., 1834-35