t, I will aver,
No depth I did not feel for her
Beyond the plummet-reach of words:
And though there may be worthier,
No truer love this world affords

Than mine was, though it could not rise
Above itself. And so 't was best,
Perhaps, that she saw manifest
Its crime, that I, as saw her eyes,
Might see; and so, in soul confessed,
Some life atonement might devise.

Sadly my heart one comfort keeps,
That, towards the end, she took my hands
And said, as one who understands,
"Had I but seen! But love that weeps,
Sees only as its loss commands,"
And sighed. Beneath this stone she sleeps.

Yes; I have suffered for that sin;
Yet in no instance would I shun
What I should suffer. Many a one,
Who heard my tale, has tried to win
Me to believe that Hamilton
It was not; and, though proven kin,

This had not saved him. Still the stain
Of the intention--had I erred
And 't was not he--had writ the word
Red on my soul that branded Cain;
For still my error had incurred
The fact of guilt that would remain.

Ah, love at best is insecure,
And lives with doubt and vain regret;
And hope and faith, with faces set
Upon the past, are never sure;
And through their fever, grief, and fret
The heart may fail that should endure.

For in ourselves, however blend
The passions that make heaven and hell,
Is evil not accountable
For most the good we comprehend?
And through these two, or ill, or well,
Man must evolve his spiritual end.

It is with deeds that we must ask
Forgiveness; for upon this earth,
Life walks alone from very birth
With death, hope tells us is a mask
For life beyond of vaster worth,
Where sin no more sets love a task.

Geraldine

Ah, Geraldine, lost Geraldine,
That night of love, when first we met,
You have forgotten, Geraldine--
I never dreamed you would forget.

Ah, Geraldine, sweet Geraldine,
More lovely than that Asian queen,
Scheherazade, the beautiful,
Who in her orient palace cool
Of India, for a thousand nights
And one, beside her monarch lay,
Telling--while sandal-scented lights
And music stole the soul away--
Love tales of old Arabia,
Full of enchantments and emprise--
But no enchantments like your eyes.

Ah, Geraldine, loved Geraldine,
More lovely than those maids, I ween,
Pampinea and Lauret