"The Forgiven Dead" by John Rollin Ridge
Whom late I scorned with bitter sneers,
What spell is this comes o'er me,
That all mine anger disappears?
My yesterday was clouded
With thinking of her cruel wrong—
But, white in death thus shrouded,
I only know I loved her long!
'Twas not herself that wandered;
It was the daemon of her brain—
I scarce can mourn I squandered
Such love on one whom love hath slain.
For died she not, pain-haunted
That truth she had forsook for gold?
Death, thou hast disenchanted
Her of sin—chaste, beautiful and cold!
But yesterday I wept not,
As pined she on her costly bed;
Well know I now, she slept not
There in peace, till slept she‚—dead!
I do forgive her, wholly;
Ye angels hear me-I forgive!
She lies so sweet and lowly—
She could not bear to sin and live.
To strew her tomb with roses,
Pure-white, virgins' tombs should be,
I had not thought: but Fate disposes—
Her soul was virgin unto me.