Then comes a sudden cloud, and from that time onward the Diary
is bitter, brutal, and baldly descriptive of life's abominations. It
would not become me to speak with certainty, but I fancy that a woman
had something to do with the Loafer's wild and reckless change. He is
reticent, but his poems all point in one direction. Here is a grave note
of passion:--
The sombre heather framed you round,
The starlight touched your pallid face,
You moved across the silvered ground--
The night was happy with your grace.
The air was steeped in silver fire,
The gorse was touched with silvern sheen;
The nightingales--the holy choir--
Sang bridal songs for you, my queen.
But songs and starfire, pomp of night,
Murmur of trees and Ocean's roll,
Were poor beside the blind delight--
The Love that quivered in my soul.
Further on there is a single brief verse like a cry of rage and
despair:--
And is it then the End of all?
O, Father! What a doom is mine--
An unreturning prodigal,
Who feeds on husks and herds with swine!
After many ravings the torn soul seems to grow calm, and we have this
pensive and tender fragment of music:--
The dreams that fill the thoughtful night,
All holy dreams are in the sky,
They stoop to me with viewless flight,
And bid me wave my care good-bye.
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