# The Golden Violet with its Tales of Romance and Chivalry and Other Poems/Love’s Last Lesson

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LOVE'S LAST LESSON.
Teach it me, if you can,—forgetfulness! I surely shall forget, if you can bid me; I who have worshipp'd thee, my god on earth, I who have bow'd me at thy lightest word. Your last command, "Forget me," will it not Sink deeply down within my inmost soul? Forget thee!—ay, forgetfulness will be A mercy to me. By the many nights When I have wept for that I dared not sleep,— A dream had made me live my woes again, Acting my wretchedness, without the hope My foolish heart still clings to, though that hope
Is like the opiate which may lull a while, Then wake to double torture; by the days Pass'd in lone watching and in anxious fears, When a breath sent the crimson to my cheek, Like the red gushing of a sudden wound; By all the careless looks and careless words Which have to me been like the scorpion's stinging; By happiness blighted, and by thee, for ever; By thy eternal work of wretchedness; By all my wither'd feelings, ruin'd health, Crush'd hopes, and rifled heart, I will forget thee! Alas! my words are vanity. Forget thee! Thy work of wasting is too surely done. The April shower may pass and be forgotten, The rose fall and one fresh spring in its place, And thus it may be with light summer love.
It was not thus with mine: it did not spring, Like the bright colour on an evening cloud, Into a moment's life, brief, beautiful; Not amid lighted halls, when flatteries Steal on the ear like dew upon the rose, As soft, as soon dispersed, as quickly pass'd; But you first call'd my woman's feelings forth, And taught me love ere I had dream'd love's name. I loved unconsciously: your name was all That seem'd in language, and to me the world Was only made for you; in solitude, When passions hold their interchange together, Your image was the shadow of my thought; Never did slave, before his Eastern lord, Tremble as I did when I met your eye, And yet each look was counted as a prize;
I laid your words up in my heart like pearls Hid in the ocean's treasure-cave. At last I learn'd my heart's deep secret: for I hoped, I dream'd you loved me; wonder, fear, delight, Swept my heart like a storm; my soul, my life, Seem'd all too little for your happiness; Had I been mistress of the starry worlds That light the midnight, they had all been yours, And I had deem'd such boon but poverty. As it was, I gave all I could—my love, My deep, my true, my fervent, faithful love; And now you bid me learn forgetfulness: It is a lesson that I soon shall learn. There is a home of quiet for the wretched, A somewhat dark, and cold, and silent rest, But still it is rest,—for it is the grave.
She flung aside the scroll, as it had part In her great misery. Why should she write? What could she write? Her woman's pride forbade To let him look upon her heart, and see It was an utter ruin;—and cold words, And scorn and slight, that may repay his own, Were as a foreign language, to whose sound She might not frame her utterance. Down she bent Her head upon an arm so white that tears Seem'd but the natural melting of its snow, Touch'd by the flush'd cheek's crimson; yet lifeblood Less wrings in shedding than such tears as those.
 And this then is love's ending! It is like The history of some fair southern clime.
Hot fires are in the bosom of the earth, And the warm'd soil puts forth its thousand flowers, Its fruits of gold, summer's regality, And sleep and odours float upon the air: At length the subterranean element Breaks from its secret dwelling-place, and lays All waste before it; the red lava stream Sweeps like the pestilence; and that which was A garden in its colours and its breath, Fit for the princess of a fairy tale, Is as a desert, in whose burning sands, And ashy waters, who is there can trace A sign, a memory of its former beauty? It is thus with the heart; love lights it up With hopes like young companions, and with joys Dreaming deliciously of their sweet selves.
This is at first; but what is the result? Hopes that lie mute in their own sullenness, For they have quarrell'd even with themselves; And joys indeed like birds of Paradise: And in their stead despair coils scorpion-like Stinging itself; and the heart, burnt and crush'd With passion's earthquake, scorch'd and wither'd up, Lies in its desolation,—this is love.
 What is the tale that I would tell? Not one Of strange adventure, but a common tale Of woman's wretchedness; one to be read Daily in many a young and blighted heart. The lady whom I spake of rose again From the red fever's couch, to careless eyes Perchance the same as she had ever been.
But oh, how alter'd to herself! She felt That bird-like pining for some gentle home To which affection might attach itself, That weariness which hath but outward part In what the world calls pleasure, and that chill Which makes life taste the bitterness of death.
 And he she loved so well,—what opiate Lull'd consciousness into its selfish sleep?— He said he loved her not; that never vow Or passionate pleading won her soul for him; And that he guess'd not her deep tenderness.
 Are words, then, only false? are there no looks, Mute but most eloquent; no gentle cares That win so much upon the fair weak things
They seem to guard? And had he not long read Her heart's hush'd secret in the soft dark eye Lighted at his approach, and on the cheek Colouring all crimson at his lightest look? This is the truth; his spirit wholly turn'd To stern ambition's dream, to that fierce strife Which leads to life's high places, and reck'd not What lovely flowers might perish in his path.
 And here at length is somewhat of revenge: For man's most golden dreams of pride and power Are vain as any woman dreams of love; Both end in weary brow and wither'd heart, And the grave closes over those whose hopes Have lain there long before.