Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN, by GEORGE MURRAY (1830-1910)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN, by                    
First Line: O'er hampshire's snow-heaped hills the sun
Last Line: Remorse is punishment enough!
Subject(s): Earth; Homecoming; Travel; World; Journeys; Trips


O'er Hampshire's snow-heaped hills the sun
Dropped westward in his circling race
Unseen, for driving snow-clouds dun
Hid, in a pierceless veil, his face.

A youth, amid the gloom and storm,
Plodded his heavy, panting way
To where, hospitable and warm,
A house-light beamed its neighbor ray.

'Twas not his home,—long steps beyond
Lay that,—but ah! what youth but knows,
Some time in life, a place more fond
Than home!—to such this youth now goes.

There dwelt his joys' eternal spring,
The very marrow of his mind,
To him on earth the fairest thing,
The woman of all woman-kind.

And there, his trade-forced journey o'er,
He thought to lose the world awhile,—
Nor see its sights nor hear its roar,—
In her sweet voice and tender smile.

But ah, when frosts of absence blight,
How many tender loves are slain!
Faithful that love whose fire and light
Can feed on fancies from the brain.

But hers, though fed, in fever sunk,
For poison with its food had mixed;
Her ears of rumor's cup had drunk,
And fancy on suspicion fixed.

A word, as light as winds that move
In June, dropped down on guardless mood,
And lo! the blossoms of her love
Lay choked in jealousy's rank wood.

But little recked that wretched youth
What fiends had made her heart their throne;
He dreamed he there reigned king in truth,
As she reigned queen within his own.

Thus by surprise his wits were slain,
When no kiss did her greeting grace;
But soon surprise gave place to pain,
At view of her cold, smileless face.

Long he implored and questioned deep,
Then vowed his constancy in vain;
She answered, but put not to sleep
With her replies his grief or pain.

For though her heart perceived him true,
Prometheus pride held upper sway
And would not let confession's dew
Wash, with her stains, his pangs away.

Thus broken beneath an unjust wrong,
Pale as a cloud at dawning grey,
Too crushed for words, for tears too strong,
He stepped to take his homeward way.

In vain her parents, 'gainst the storm,
Besought him tarry till the day;—
She gave but in half-hearted form,
That half-consent which meaneth nay.

He went; and gentle sleep dropped down
Upon that house and all within;—
On all? Nay, sleep from one had flown,—
That one lay weeping for her sin.

Ah, woman, woman! had those eyes
But dropped their honey on his heart,
Thine now would not give forth those cries,
Nor in that restless anguish start.

Why shudder at the bitter blast?
Sure not so cold to him the storm
As thy cold words remembered last,—
Comparison would make it warm.

Why damp with ceaseless tears thy bed?
'Tis useless now to moan and chide;
On colder couch than thine his head
Hath found a rest to thine denied.

Why Heaven implore to haste the day?
No day can ever break again
So brightly that its glories may
Rid thy heart one hour of pain.

It came,—the day,—up smiled the sun
And looked abroad; but swift he drew
About him cloudy curtains dun,
As to shut shameful sight from view.

The mountain-cradled winds awoke
And fluttered forth; but with a cry
Of fear their easy flight they broke,
And shuddering, moaning, back did fly.

The clouds crept stealthy round heaven's rim,
As they did fear to cross its vault
And look below; in East, black, dim,
A massy mourning pall they halt.

Ye fearful elements! well, well
May horror halt your flying cars!
On sadder sight dawn never fell,
Than yonder lonely hillside bears.

See where he lies! cold, still and white
As the snow that doth his body cover.
But yesterday he stepped full light!
This morn a corpse,—last eve a lover!

But yet, bright sun! ye gentle wind!
Sweet moon, and lesser lamps of heaven!
Have pity! oh, to her be kind,
Whose life to endless grief is given!

Hide not your beams, nor silver light,
Your harps be never harsh nor rough!
Oh soothe, not sadden, her dark night;
Remorse is punishment enough!





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