Litchfield Enquirer

POETRY.

THE FORSAKEN TO THE FALSE ONE.
BY T.H. BAILEY

I dare thee to forget me!
Go wander where thou wilt
Thy hand upon the vessel's helm,
Or on the sabre's hilt:
Away! thou'rt free! o'er land and sea,
Go rush to danger's brink!
But oh, thou canst not fly from thought;
Thy curse will be to think!
Remember me? remember all-
My long enduring love,
That linked itself to perfidy-
The vulture and the dove!
Remember in thy utmost need,
I never once did shrink,
But clung to thee confidingly:
Thy curse shall be-to think!
Then go! That thought will render thee
A dastard in the fight;
That thought, when thou art tempest-tost,
Will fill thee with affright!
In some wild dungeon mayst thou lie,
And, counting each cold link
That binds thee to captivity,
Thy curse shall be-to think!
Go, seek the merry banquet hall,
Where young maidens bloom,
The thought of ME shall make thee THERE
Endure a deeper gloom:
That thought shall turn the festive cup
To poison while you drink,
And while false smiles are on thy cheek,
Thy curse will be-to think!
Forget me! false one, Hope it not!
When minstrels touch the string,
The memory of other days
Will gall thee when they sing:
The airs I used to love, will make
Thy coward conscience shrink;
Aye, ev'ry note will have its sting-
Thy curse will be-to think!
Forget me! No, that shall not be!
I'll haunt thee in thy sleep,
In dreams thou'lt cling to slimy rocks
That overhang the deep:
Thou'lt shriek for aid! My feeble arm
Shall hurl thee from the brink.
And when thou wak'st in wild dismay,
Thy curse shall be-to think!