Rosalind's Scroll

    A woman scarce in years：

    I come to thee a solemn corpse¹

    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 vow²：

    I tell thee that my poor scorn'd heart

    Is of thine earth—thine earth—a part：

    It cannot vex³ thee now.

    I have pray'd for thee with bursting sob⁴

    When passion's course was free；

    I have pray'd for thee with silent lips

    In the anguish⁵ 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 woe⁶

    Hath licence from the sin below

    Its tranquil⁷ heart to thrill.

    I charge thee by the living's prayer

    And the dead's silentness

    To wring⁸ from out thy soul a cry

    Which God shall hear and bless！

    Lest Heaven's own palm droop⁹ in my hand

    And pale among the saints I stand

    A saint companionless.