Patrick Regan has kindly shared the material from his George Heath site with readers of the Victorian Web, who may wish to consult the original.

The twilight shadows, deep'ning into gloom,
Close thickly round me in my cheerless room;
      My heart is weeping, weeping sad and sore,
                  Now thou art gone!

The book you read lies closed beneath my hands,
The chair you occupied beside me stands;
      Mementos of the sunny days no more —
                  A summer flown.

Anon, the vanished hours before me rise,
And looking at me with those tender eyes,
      Thou, smiling sweetly, sit'st beside me here,
                  My darling one!

'Tis but a moment, then 'tis gone again,
But deepening in my heart its aching pain,
      And leaving on my cheek a weary tear,
                  Within, a groan.

The leaden days drag on so drearily,
I sit and count the moments wearily,
      I have no pastime and no purpose now,
                  And pleasure none.

The sun comes shining o'er the rimy tiles,
All Nature wakens into tears and smiles,
      The moon pours down its lustre on my brow
                  Like times agone.

But from them faded sadly is the light,
The grand of earth and sky, the fair, the bright,
      Have lost their charm to me for evermore,
                  Now thou art gone!

I strive to lose myself in fiction's maze,
Or fix on learning's page my mind and gaze,
      And pant and struggle, as in days of yore
                  I battled on.

Down from the cypress bough my lyre I take,
And sweep its murm'rous strings, and strive to wake
      My soul to noble things, and break the chains
                  That bind me down.

But soon my eyes grow tear-bedewed and dim,
And visions of the past before me swim,
      My lyre gives forth but grieved and jarring strains —
                  Its music flown.

And no one comes to smile a fond relief,
And no one mourns my weakness, soothes my grief,
      Or speaks a kindly word of sympathy,
                  I am alone!

And no one points me upward towards the blaze,
And no one smiles upon my feeble lays,
      And no one thinks of me nor cares for me,
                  Now thou art gone!

I might, perhaps, have hoped and wrestled on,
And strained and grappled till the wreath I'd won,
      Till fortune, frowning erst, had stooped to smile,
                  All, all for thee!

Nay, this I would have done, ("The will's the way,"
And stern determination wins the day),
      Had but thyself, the guerdon of my toil,
                  Remained to me.

But what to me are now the smiles of fame?
Poor shipwreck'd thing, without a hope or aim;
      What matters, if I linger, rise, or fall,
                  Now thou art gone?

What have I here to strive and battle for,
What interest in the game, the race, the war?
      I loved thee — oh, my heart! thou wert my all!
                  But thou art gone!

In gloaming time I wander down the lane,
And pause beside the rustic gate again,
      And scan the pathway over which you came
                  In days agone!

Your dwelling of those days stands 'neath the hill,
The brooklet ripples on and shimmers still,
      The yew tree nods its dark plumes just the same,
                  But thou art gone!

I shrink away, my eyes with tears are wet,
And from my heart swells up a mad regret,
      A silent gush of hopeless lamentation,
                  For thou art gone!

Oh! when will cease this constant, quenchless burning,
This rankling grief, this restless spirit-yearning,
      This weary sense of helpless desolation,
                  Now thou art gone?

I lift my aching eyes from day to day
Towards where thou dwellest now, so far away!
      The pale horizon bounds my view, 'tis vain!
                  My absent one!

I turn into myself, and strive to force
My soul to drink at pleasure's gaudy source;
      But in my heart still throbs the old deep pain,
                  For thou art gone!

I often wonder, dost thou ever think
Of that seared, silent heart thou left'st to drink
      The bitter cup of life, to fight and weep
                  Alone, behind?

Or if those mystic eyes with icy gleams
Shine coldly, if thou think'st of me, as in dreams
      That come to torture this poor brain in sleep,
                  Or if more kind?

You could not see the pain that wrung my heart
When we had met, the last, last time, to part!
      You told me I should see your face again
                  No more, no more!

'Twas cruel, cruel! for if 'tis denied
Our souls the bliss to meet on this dark side,
      Sure we may meet on yonder shore, where pain
                  And grief are o'er.

Oh! grant to me this one fond hope at least,
To meet and love thee when from earth released;
      Where dear ones never part, no tear drops flow,
                  And griefs are none.

But, blessings on thee through the coming years,
Whate'er remains to me of hopes or fears;
Oh, foolish heart! oh, vain and idle tears!
      Heaven help me! I am broken-hearted so,
                  Now thou art gone!


Victorian Web George Heath Contents


Last modified 4 September 2002