by Eliza Acton
Forgive thee!-yes-when ev'ry cord
Which binds my soul to earth, is broken;
When scarce I hear the whisper'd word,
By gentlest tongues around me, spoken.
Forgive thee!-yes-thy once-lov'd name,
Shall mingle with my faltering breath,
When, fainter still, this languid frame
Shall bend, before the touch of death.
Forgive thee!-yes-when paler still
This cold and fading brow shall be,
And o'er my heart the latest chill
Comes on, of mortal agony.
Forgive thee!-yes-but rest awhile
'Till mem'ry of the past hath perish'd;
'Till from my mind that voice, that smile,
Have pass'd, as though they ne'er were cherish'd.
Come, when each hope is rais'd to heav'n,
Which wither'd in the world's cold shade;
And thou-e'en thou-shalt be forgiv'n
The wretchedness which thou hast made.
Last updated January 14, 2019