If God died for us, and lay in a grave,
  Leaving His mansions of glory for this;
  It must have been from a longing to save
  Such a noble sinner as Harry is.

  In His own image created He him,
  And He called man ‘good’ on the virgin sod;
  And when He beheld His image grow dim,
  He died to redeem it—­the gracious God!

  Rebuking myself with an angry pain—­
  What was I wishing for?  What would I have? 
  A paragon fram’d by my shallow brain,
  And not the sinner God died to save?

  I have driven madness out of my brain,
  Studying life with intolerant eyes;
  Praying and weeping and praying again—­
  Earth is good for nothing but prayers and sighs.

  We all are made up of follies and faults,
  That, if time but serv’d, would lead us to crime;
  And for every time my darling halts,
  I am sure I have halted fifty times!

  I am not blinded or prejudiced here;
  I have sought the truth and found what I sought;
  I know you were wrong, my Harry, my dear;
  You should not have play’d and quarrell’d and fought.

  Had you been here on that evening—­a cry
  Comes out of my heart as one grace I implore: 
  Let me not think of our evenings, or I
  Shall suddenly die, and see him no more.

  I know you were wrong, my darling; I know
  That we all do wrong, and must all repent;
  But this horrible depth of nameless woe
  Was nothing on earth but an accident. 
  With your tender heart and your gracious way,
  And your temper as gay as cloudless skies,
  You would sooner have died that fatal day
  Than taken the life of Jack Devize.

  O tender heart, art thou lonely and cold,
  With no one to comfort or take thy part? 
  O sweet gay words in the days that are old! 
  And oh, to be clasp’d to that tender heart!

  I am so afraid that you feel remorse
  For an end that indeed you could not prevent;
  And I am not there to put gentle force
  On what you should and should not repent. 
  I am so afraid that you grieve too much,
  With a sorrow that nothing will stop or stay: 
  O Harry, don’t let your sorrow be such;
  O darling, you shall be happy some day!

  They want to have you; they hunt you to death: 
  They cannot believe that you meant the deed! 
  Have they no sense? no perception? no faith? 
  Are they helmless boats, without God or Creed?

  Waiting, waiting, waiting, Harry, for you,
  While the dreadful days drag wearily by;
  I cannot wait longer—­what shall I do? 
  For till I have kiss’d you I cannot die.

  Frighten’d at every movement or sound—­
  Every thing except one thing forgot—­
  Always in terror that you have been found—­
  Would the first moment be rapture or not?