Rosalind's Scroll

    A woman scarce in years：

    I come to thee a solemn corpse

    Which neither feels nor fears.

    I have no breath to use in sighs；

    They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes

    To seal them safe from tears.

    Look on me with thine own calm look：

    I meet it calm as thou.

    No look of thine can change this smile

    Or break thy sinful vow：

    I tell thee that my poor scorn'd heart

    Is of thine earth—thine earth—a part：

    It cannot vex thee now.

    I have pray'd for thee with bursting sob

    When passion's course was free；

    I have pray'd for thee with silent lips

    In the anguish none could see；

    They whisper'd oft 'She sleepeth soft'—

    But I only pray'd for thee.

    Go to！ I pray for thee no more：

    The corpse's tongue is still；

    Its folded fingers point to heaven

    But point there stiff and chill：

    No farther wrong no farther woe

    Hath licence from the sin below

    Its tranquil heart to thrill.

    I charge thee by the living's prayer

    And the dead's silentness

    To wring from out thy soul a cry

    Which God shall hear and bless！

    Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand

    And pale among the saints I stand

    A saint companionless.