The Suicide.
The sun had set. The ruddy clouds
Had changed to gloomy gray,
And sweet, sad twilight soothed the hour
Forsaken by the day.
A village road, with nest-like cots,
And oaks, on either hand.
An old stone bridge, whose single arch,
A dark, deep river spanned:
And sounds of distant merry shouts
Were borne upon the breeze,
When, on the bridge there came a maid,
And sank upon her knees.
A maid? Perhaps a slighted wife—
Or neither—none could tell—
A stricken life—a broken heart,
About to bid farewell—
Farewell to that, which lacking hope,
Is but a dreary waste;
Where Nature’s brightest, fairest sweets
Grow bitter to the taste.
She rose—advanced unto the brink—
A wild, imploring prayer—
Alas! she stood, unloved—alone—
A statue of despair.
One plaintive wail, and then a plunge—
The wavelets laved the shore—
Then all was still. The river flowed
As smoothly as before.