 | Old Year Leaves |  |
30
VIOLET.
‘A tale of sorrow’? Ay, I know,One fraught with sharp and sudden woe,
A story of undoubted truth,
Beclouding all my sunny youth;
And though with arbitrary sway
Stern Time has turned my locks to grey,
Though furrowed wrinkles on my brow
Proclaim that I am agèd now,
Though signs of trouble you may trace
In the expression of my face,—
Though trembling is my bloodless hand,
And scarcely under due command,
Though devious is my tottering tread,
Though bent with weight of years my head;
Though my whole look, my gait, my air,
Show sad though common signs of care,
Yet fadeless, unforgotten, clear,
To mental sight its scenes appear.
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As playmate,—brothers I had none.
A lovely rose-lipped child was she,
Dear as my very life to me;
Now, almost mournful in their birth,
Rise thoughts of these dead days of mirth;
I see her framing daisy-chains
While I assist, and for my pains
Receiving, as repayment meet,
The chaplet from her when complete.
And as o'er both the restless years
Resistless rolled their hopes and fears,
They only bound us by a bond
More durable and just as fond.
O happy he who thus hath known
Such union ere his lot was thrown
Amid the changes and the strife
And heart-wounds of the world's strange life!
Even dreams of such communion to the bruised and wearied soul,
Are ever found the truest balm to make it strong and whole.
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Yes: years rolled on, with little change
For us in Duty's daily range.
My sister—Violet her name,—
In beauty grown, remained the same
In character. Her guileless grace,
Almost a proverb in the place,
To those she loved exceeding fond,
And gentle unto all beyond.
Ever for right most firm and strong,
Aye valiantly rebuking wrong,
And seeking in whatever mood
To shun the ill and do the good.
Her figure pleasing as her mien,
Her summers numbering seventeen;
Her rippling hair of darkest hue,
Her eyes not oft describèd blue,
But some rare tint,—and pen can ne'er
Portray the radiance glowing there.
For us in Duty's daily range.
My sister—Violet her name,—
In beauty grown, remained the same
In character. Her guileless grace,
Almost a proverb in the place,
To those she loved exceeding fond,
And gentle unto all beyond.
Ever for right most firm and strong,
Aye valiantly rebuking wrong,
And seeking in whatever mood
To shun the ill and do the good.
Her figure pleasing as her mien,
Her summers numbering seventeen;
Her rippling hair of darkest hue,
Her eyes not oft describèd blue,
But some rare tint,—and pen can ne'er
Portray the radiance glowing there.
There was a youth whom Violet thought
Worthy her love, and he had caught
A kindred flame of chaste desire;
A truer love could none require,
Parents and friends were satisfied,
And well they might be; all descried
That union of such virtuous worth
Would prove the happiest on earth.
Worthy her love, and he had caught
A kindred flame of chaste desire;
A truer love could none require,
Parents and friends were satisfied,
And well they might be; all descried
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Would prove the happiest on earth.
Our lawn stretched to a deep broad stream:
On summer eves 'twas like a dream
To watch the gentle moonbeams play
Across its wide and glittering way;
To trace the tremor of the trees
Slow moving in the soft night breeze,
And as on either side they bend
Each towards the other as a friend
Talking with comrade dear,—to think
These trees, converse they, on this river's brink?
On summer eves 'twas like a dream
To watch the gentle moonbeams play
Across its wide and glittering way;
To trace the tremor of the trees
Slow moving in the soft night breeze,
And as on either side they bend
Each towards the other as a friend
Talking with comrade dear,—to think
These trees, converse they, on this river's brink?
On the stream's tide we kept a boat,
Not often did it idly float
In peace near to the summer shore;
For one alone could ply its oar
With pleasure. In the sultry noon,
With bees and birds and trees in tune,
How sweet to glide in it, and screen
'Neath willows from the scorching sheen;
Thus Violet full oft had been.
Not often did it idly float
In peace near to the summer shore;
For one alone could ply its oar
With pleasure. In the sultry noon,
With bees and birds and trees in tune,
How sweet to glide in it, and screen
'Neath willows from the scorching sheen;
Thus Violet full oft had been.
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And so one day—the heat was great,
And, we conjecture, to abate
Its force, she to the water dipped
To lave her hands,—in quickly slipped
The boat's light oar; that then she tried
To reach it, bending on one side,—
Till gone too far to stay, 'twould seem,
She slid into the treacherous stream.
And, we conjecture, to abate
Its force, she to the water dipped
To lave her hands,—in quickly slipped
The boat's light oar; that then she tried
To reach it, bending on one side,—
Till gone too far to stay, 'twould seem,
She slid into the treacherous stream.
Too late an oarless boat was found,
And near, a maiden, soul-less, drowned,
In whose fair face and gloomless mien
Death in his gentlest form was seen.
One lover more o'erwhelmed with grief,
Whose tears as yet brought no relief,
Who, righteous and untouched by guile,
Ne'er sought another maiden's smile;
A brother who through all his coming years
Will strive to dry his brethren's bitter tears.
And near, a maiden, soul-less, drowned,
In whose fair face and gloomless mien
Death in his gentlest form was seen.
One lover more o'erwhelmed with grief,
Whose tears as yet brought no relief,
Who, righteous and untouched by guile,
Ne'er sought another maiden's smile;
A brother who through all his coming years
Will strive to dry his brethren's bitter tears.
‘A common story, this,’ I hear one say,—
‘Not worth the telling.’ Nay, stern critic, nay;
Each man's heart-tragedy, if truly told,
Will interest some, although to most 'tis cold
And commonplace. No case of mental pain
Which crushes not, but strengthens, can be vain.
‘Not worth the telling.’ Nay, stern critic, nay;
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Will interest some, although to most 'tis cold
And commonplace. No case of mental pain
Which crushes not, but strengthens, can be vain.
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