Alice Ray: A Romance In Rhyme: Canto IV
CANTO
IV.
THE
RETRIBUTION.
Around
the
sides
of
Etna
How
fair
the
gardens
grow,-
Yet
burning
Desolation
Is
fierce
and
near
below!-
While
straying
'mid
the
vines
and
flowers,
We
rarely
pause
to
think,
How
close
this
Beauty
presses
on
Destruction's
awful
brink!
And
when
the
gay
are
flaunting,
Like
flowers
from
hot-house
brought,
We
oft
forget
their
blandest
smile
Conceals
some
burning
thought
Of
pain,
remorse
or
envy,
The
surface
hid
beneath,-
Oh
many
wear
the
flowers
without
Whose
hearts
are
filled
with
death!
When
all
looks
fair
in
seeming,
And
outwardly
serene,
We
say
"'tis
good;"-but
had
we
power
To
lift
the
veil
between,
And
see
how
passion's
lava
Is
gathering
in
the
breast,
While
Justice,
like
a
hidden
stream
That
cannot
be
suppressed,
Is
wearing
channels,
day
by
day,
And
coming
nigh
and
nigher,-
How
we
should
warn
the
world
to
flee
From
sin's
volcanic
fire!
Ay,
Justice,
who
evades
her?
Her
scales
reach
every
heart;
The
action
and
the
motive,
She
weigheth
each
apart;
And
none
who
swerve
from
right
or
truth
Can
'scape
her
penalty;-
Oh!
sore
the
Retribution,
Poor
Alice,
laid
on
thee.
Yet
Alice
had
not
broken
A
law
that
men
endite;
But
still,
in
her
own
mind
she
saw
The
Law
in
purer
light;
Had
she
not
pined
for
Beauty,
With
Envy's
selfish
eye,
And
wed
a
man
she
did
not
love
For
wealth,
and
station
high?
She
knew
she
did
not
love
him,
Not
with
that
pure,
heart-love,
A
true
wife
for
her
husband
feels,
Kindled
from
heaven
above:-
To
wed
a
man
one
does
not
love,
What
suffering
to
incur!
But
Alice
had
another
grief-
Her
husband
loved
not
her:-
That
is,-'twas
not
his
nature
To
love
with
constancy;
When
dazzled
by
her
beauty,
And
she
a
novelty,
He
loved,-but
soon
the
holy
charm
Had
lost
its
light
and
power,
And
he
would
leave
her
lone
and
sad
For
some
new
toy
or
flower.
She
felt
the
change
as
woman
Feels,
with
the
deepest
pain,
And
often
strove,
by
sweetest
wiles,
To
lure
his
heart
again;-
She
wore
the
colours
he
admired,
The
jewels
he
had
given,
And
met
him
with
a
face
of
smiles
Even
when
her
heart
was
riven.
When
once
she
tried
to
tell
him
How
she
her
bird
had
freed,
And
how
it
nestled
in
her
neck-
He
only
cried-"Indeed!
Where
is
the
paper?
'Tis
the
day
To
learn
whose
racer
wins;-
And
then,
tonight,
with
that
new
star,
The
Opera
begins."
Their
souls
were
never
mated,-
Hers
centred
in
a
home
Where
all
was
truth
and
tenderness,
And
none
but
dear
ones
come;
His
joy
was
found
on
Pleasure's
tide,
With
gay
companions
nigh,
And
should
they
sink,
it
mattered
not,
If
he
but
held
a
buoy;-
The
motto
graven
on
his
seal
Was,
"I-and
only
I."
What
wonder
that
in
sadness
The
loving
Alice
pined;-
Had
Heaven
her
lot
appointed
She
might
have
been
resigned;
But
'twas
the
bitter
chalice
Which
she
herself
had
filled,-
It
was
the
deadly
Upas
plant-
Her
Envy
had
distilled.
What
cared
she
now
for
Beauty?
Her
Husband
marked
it
not,-
Her
flowing
hair
might
sweetly
curl,
-Its
colour
he
forgot;
Her
face
was
like
Belinda's
fair,
And
yet
he
turned
away
And
gazed,
and
praised
some
painted
thing
That
flaunted
in
the
play.
Yet
still
the
hoping
Alice
Was
so
unused
to
grief,
She
tried
to
think
some
good
would
come,
Some
change
would
bring
relief;
But
days,
weeks-months,
are
passing
by,
And
still
her
chains
grow
stronger;
She
felt
her
sorrow
was
so
great
She
could
not
bear
it
longer.
And
now
kind
thoughts
of
Arthur
Would
with
her
dreamings
come,
She
strove
to
drive
him
from
her
mind-
But
he
was
near
her
home,
And
all
she
loved
and
sighed
to
see,-
As
well
forget
her
prayer
As
him
who
often
by
her
side
Had
knelt
that
right
to
share.
And
he
had
loved
her
truly,
And
she
to
him
was
fair,
But
now,
with
all
her
Beauty,
No
one
for
her
would
care;
She
felt
the
crisis
coming,
Even
her
bright
hopes
had
fled,
She
wished
but
for
her
mother
To
hold
her
throbbing
head.
And
when
the
blush
of
morning
Burst
on
the
eastern
sky,
The
high
roofs
seemed
like
leaden
weights
Upon
her
lifted
eye,-
And
when,
as
blesséd
evening
came,
She
looked
towards
the
west,
She
felt
as
if
the
cold,
hard
walls
Were
closing
round
her
breast!
And
dreadful
was
the
struggle
Of
the
last
dying
scene,-
Oh,
what
despairing
thoughts
arose,
With
tears
and
prayers
between!
The
last
pang
came-she
gave
one
shriek,
As
though
her
heart-strings
broke,-
And
then
a
hand
clasped
hers,
and
then
The
breathless
girl—awoke!
She
woke,
and
there
was
Arthur,
Beneath
that
old
elm
tree,
With
face
of
ashy
pallor,
Beside
her
on
his
knee;-
"What
ails
thee,
Alice,
dearest?
Thy
cry
was
strange
and
wild;"
She
laid
her
head
upon
his
breast,
And
wept
as
weeps
a
child.
And
ere
she
ceased
her
sobbing,
She
told
him
all
her
woes,
From
her
Saratoga
sorrows,
To
that
dark
Vision's
close:
She
said-"My
heart
was
wrong
and
weak,
How
could
I
be
so
dull!
But
now
my
dream
has
taught
me
this,
The
loved
are
beautiful.
Forgive
me,
oh,
forgive
me,
My
foolishness
and
pride!"
-He
whispered
he
forgave
her
all-
And
something
more
beside;
I
could
not
hear
distinctly,
For
song
began
to
flow,
The
joyous
bird
was
over-head,
And
lovers
speak
so
low.
But
this
I
know-ere
Autumn
Put
on
his
Winter
grey-
While
yet
the
melted
rainbow,
'Mid
forest
shadow
lay,
And
trees
were
flushed
with
glory
More
rich
than
flowers
of
May-
Though
very
late
the
season
For
such
a
grand
array,
It
seemed
as
Earth
kept
on
her
robes
For
Festival
display-
But
on
the
Friday
after
That
bright
Thanksgiving-Day,*
Had
you
in
Woodburn
village
Enquired
for
Alice
Ray-
They
would
have
smiled
and
said-"She
now
Is
Mrs.
Arthur
Gray!"
Sarah Josepha Hale
Sarah Josepha Hale was born on October 24th, 1788 in Newport, New Hampshire. Her parents were strong advocates for education of both sexes. Therefore, Hale was taught well beyond the normal age for a woman. Later, she married a lawyer David Hale, who supported her in all scholarly endeavors. Sadly, her husband died after only nine years of marriage, leaving Hale a widow with five children. She turned to poetry as a form of income. Her most famous book, titled Poems for Our Children included a beloved story from her childhood. “Mary Had a Little Lamb” was instantly a popular nursey rhyme.