Chapter 57 Rosalind's Scroll

I LEFT thee last, a child at heart, 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 scornd heart Is of thine earth--thine earth--a part: It cannot vex thee now. I have prayed for thee with bursting sob When passions course was free; I have prayed for thee with silent lips

In the anguish none could see; They whispered oft, She sleepeth soft-- But I only prayed for thee. Go to! I pray for thee no more: The corpse tongue is still; Its folded fingers point to heaven, But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong, no farther woe Hath license from the sin below Its tranquil heart to thrill. I charge thee, by the livings prayer, And the dead silence, To wring from out thy soul a cry Which God shall hear and bless! Lest Heavens own palm droop in my hand, And pale among the saints I stand, A saint companionless.