Song

Believe not the slander, my dearest Katrine!
For the ice of the world hath not frozen my heart;
In my innermost spirit there still is a shrine
Where thou art remember'd, all pure as thou art:
The dark tide of years, as it bears us along,
Though it sweep away hope in its turbulent flow,
Cannot drown the low voice of Love's eloquent song,
Nor chill with its waters my faith's early glow.
True, the world hath its snares, and the soul may grow faint
In its strifes with the follies and falsehoods of earth;
And amidst the dark whirl of corruption, a taint
May poison the thoughts that are purest at birth.
Temptations and trials, without and within,
From the pathway of virtue the spirit may lure;
But the soul shall grow strong in its triumphs o'er sin,
And the heart shall preserve its integrity pure.
The finger of Love, on my innermost heart,
Wrote thy name, O adored! when my feelings were young;
And the record shall 'bide till my soul shall depart,
And the darkness of death o'er my being be flung.
Then believe not the slander that says I forget,
In the whirl of excitement, the love that was thine;
Thou wert dear in my boyhood, art dear to me yet:
For my sunlight of life is the smile of Katrine!