Lota - Part III

A poem on Unrequited Love, by Augusta Webster

Page 52

But yet his singing kept him in some sort
Till sickness came. Dying, almost from want
More than from ailing, helpless to turn himself,
Wasted and pinched from want and cold, 'twas thus
That Gervase Lester found him. Instantly
All care that might be, fitting sustenance,
Nursing, and doctoring, were spent on him;
So he revived; and when some days went by,
There was a letter written to his wife,
Which Gervase saw by chance as it lay sealed.
"Tis to my wife:" the sick man said, "she lives
At Woodley, and 'tis years since we have met.
She hates me, but a dying man may ask.
Oh! she must come. I cannot pray in peace
Till she says one kind word before I die."
Then Gervase said "Nay, you will startle her.
Give me the letter; I will go for you,
And bring her, if she will."

And now he came
And told this all to Lota.

But she sighed,
And trembled, and looked down reluctantly.
She said "I cannot; I should make new pain,
No other, for him." But he urged her more,
And Evelyn urged.

She cried "Alas! there is
A hardness in me. I might shrink from him
Abhorrently when I would take his hand
And seem to soothe him. No, I will not go."

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