Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889
The Skaters
By Fitz-James O’Brien (1828–1862)L
His hand holds hers as in a vice;
The moonlight strikes the back-blown hair
Of handsome Madge and Rupert Clare.
It groans to feel his spurning heel:
While ever with the following wind
A shadowy skater flits behind.
O Rupert Clare, let go my hand!
I cannot see—I cannot hear—
The wind about us moans with fear!”
His touch is colder than the ice,
His face is paler than the moon
That paves with light the lone lagoon!
A something awful in your face!
You crush my hand—you sweep me on—
Until my breath and sense are gone!”
His touch is colder than the ice;
She only hears the ringing tune
Of skates upon the lone lagoon.
For heaven’s mercy hear my prayer!
I could not help my heart you know!
Poor Willy Gray,—he loves me so!”
His lip is bluer than the ice;
While ever thrills the ringing tune
Of skates along the lone lagoon.
The rotten ice before us lies!
You dastard! Loose your hold, I say!—
O God! Where are you, Willy Gray?”
A wilder light in Rupert’s eye,—
She cannot—cannot loose that grip;
His sinewy arm is round her hip!
The shadowy skater scuds behind;
The lithe ice rises to the stroke
Of steel-shod heels that seem to smoke.
He tears his bride from Rupert Clare;
His fainting Madge, whose moist eyes say,
Ah! here, at last, is Willy Gray!
“No more,” they cry, “no more to part!”
But still along the lone lagoon
The steel skates ring a ghostly tune!
The panting lovers still behold
The self-appointed sacrifice
Skating toward the rotten ice!