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281

BALLADS AND NARRATIVE POEMS.

DOVECOTE MILL.

THE HOMESTEAD.

From the old Squire's dwelling, gloomy and grand,
Stretching away on either hand,
Lie fields of broad and fertile land.
Acres on acres everywhere
The look of smiling plenty wear,
That tells of the master's thoughtful care.
Here blossoms the clover, white and red,
Here the heavy oats in a tangle spread;
And the millet lifts her golden head.
And, ripening, closely neighbored by
Fields of barley and pale white rye,
The yellow wheat grows strong and high.
And near, untried through the summer days,
Lifting their spears in the sun's fierce blaze,
Stand the bearded ranks of the maize.
Straying over the side of the hill,
Here the sheep run to and fro at will,
Nibbling of short green grass their fill.
Sleek cows down the pasture take their ways,
Or lie in the shade through the sultry days,
Idle, and too full-fed to graze.
Ah, you might wander far and wide,
Nor find a spot in the country side,
So fair to see as our valley's pride!
How, just beyond, if it will not tire
Your feet to climb this green knoll higher,
We can see the pretty village spire;
And, mystic haunt of the whippoor-wills,
The wood, that all the background fills,
Crowning the tops to the mill-creek hills.
There, miles away, like a faint blue line,
Whenever the day is clear and fine
You can see the track of a river shine.
Near it a city hides unseen,
Shut close the verdant hills between,
As an acorn set in its cup of green.
And right beneath, at the foot of the hill,
The little creek flows swift and still,
That turns the wheel of Dovecote Mill.
Nearer the grand old house one sees
Fair rows of thrifty apple-trees,
And tall straight pears, o'ertopping these.
And down at the foot of the garden, low,
On a rustic bench, a pretty show,
White bee-hives, standing in a row.
Here trimmed in sprigs with blossoms, each
Of the little bees in easy reach,
Hang the boughs of the plum and peach.
At the garden's head are poplars, tall,
And peacocks, making their harsh loud call,
Sun themselves all day on the wall.
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And here you will find on every hand
Walks, and fountains, and statues grand,
And trees from many a foreign land.
And flowers, that only the learned can name,
Here glow and burn like a gorgeous flame,
Putting the poor man's blooms to shame.
Far away from their native air
The Norway pines their green dress wear;
And larches swing their long loose hair.
Near the porch grows the broad catalpa tree
And o'er it the grand wistaria,
Born to the purple of royalty.
There looking the same for a weary while,—
'T was built in this heavy, gloomy style,—
Stands the mansion, a grand old pile.
Always closed, as it is to-day,
And the proud Squire, so the neighbors say,
Frowns each unwelcome guest away.
Though some who knew him long ago,
If you ask, will shake their heads of snow,
And tell you he was not always so,
Though grave and quiet at any time,—
But that now, his head in manhood's prime,
Is growing white as the winter's rime.

THE GARDENER'S HOME.

Well, you have seen it—a tempting spot!
Now come with me through the orchard plot
And down the lane to the gardener's cot.
Look where it hides almost unseen,
And peeps the sheltering vines between,
Like a white flower out of a bush of green.
Cosy as nest of a bird inside,
Here is no room for show or pride,
And the open door swings free and wide.
Across the well-worn stepping-stone,
With sweet ground-ivy half o'ergrown,
You may pass, as if the house were your own.
You are welcome here to come or stay,
For to all the host has enough to say;
And the good-wife smiles in a pleasant way.
'T is a pretty place to see in the time,
When the vines in bloom o'er the rude walls climb,
And Nature laughs in her joyful prime.
Bordered by roses, early and late,
A narrow graveled walk leads straight
Up to the door from the rustic gate.
Here the lilac flings her perfume wide,
And the sweet-brier, up to the lattice tied,
Seems trying to push herself inside.
A little off to the right, one sees
Some black and sturdy walnut-trees,
And locusts, whose white flowers scent the breeze.
And the Dovecote Mill stands just beyond,
With its dull red walls, and the droning sound
Of the slow wheel, turning round and round.
Here the full creek rushes noisily,
Though oft in summer it runs half dry,
And its song is only a lullaby.
But the prettiest sight when all is done,
That the eye or mind can rest upon,
Or in the house or out in the sun;—
And whatever beside you may have met,
The picture you will not soon forget,—
Is little Bethy, the gardener's pet.
Ever his honest laughing eyes
Beam with a new and glad surprise,
At the wit of her childish, quaint replies.
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While the mother seems with a love more deep
To guard her always, awake or asleep,
As one with a sacred trust to keep.
Here in the square room, parlor and hall,
Stand the stiff-backed chairs against the wall,
And the clock in the corner, straight and tall.
Ranged on the cupboard shelf in sight,
Glistens the china, snowy white,
And the spoons and platters, burnished bright.
Oft will a bird, or a butterfly dare
To venture in through the window, bare,
And opened wide for the summer air.
And sitting near it you may feel
Faint scent of herbs from the garden steal,
And catch the sound of the miller's wheel.
With wife and child, and his plot to till,
Here the gardener lives contented still,
Let the world outside go on as it will

THE MILL.

With cobwebs and dust on the window spread,
On the walls and the rafters overhead,
Rises the old mill, rusty red.
Grim as the man who calls it his own,
Outside, from the gray foundation stone
To the roof with spongy moss o'ergrown.
Through a loop-hole made in the gable high,
In and out like arrows fly
The slender swallows, swift and shy.
And with bosoms purple, brown, and white,
Along the eves, in the shimmering light,
Sits a row of doves from morn till night.
Less quiet far is the place within,
Where the falling meal o'erruns the bin,
And you hear the busy stir and din.
Grave is the miller's mien and pace,
But his boy, with ruddy, laughing face,
Is good to see in this sombre place.
And little Bethy will say to you,
That he is good and brave and true,
And the wisest boy you ever knew!
“Why Robert,” she says, “was never heard
To speak a cross or a wicked word,
And he would n't injure even a bird!”
And he, with boyish love and pride,
Ever since she could walk by his side,
Has been her playmate and her guide.
For he lived in the world three years before
Bethy her baby beauty wore;
And is taller than she by a head or more.
Up the plank and over the sill,
In and out at their childish will,
They played about the old red mill.
They watched the mice through the corn-sacks steal,
The steady shower of the snowy meal,
And the water falling over the wheel.
They loved to stray in the garden walks,
Bordered by stately hollyhocks
And pinks and odorous marigold stalks.
Where lilies and tulips stood in line
By the candytuft and the columbine,
And lady-grass, like a ribbon fine.
Where the daffodil wore her golden lace,
And the prince's-feather blushed in the face,
And the cockscomb looked as vain as his race.
And here, as gay as the birds in the bowers,
Our children lived through their life's first hours,
And grew till their heads o'ertopped the flowers.
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SUGAR-MAKING.

Swiftly onward the seasons flew,
And enough to see and enough to do
Our children found the long year through.
They played in the hay when the fields were mowed,
With the sun-burnt harvesters they rode
Home to the barn a-top of the load,
When her fragrant fruit the orchard shed,
They helped to gather the apples spread
On the soft grass—yellow, russet, and red.
Down hill in winter they used to slide,
And over the frozen mill-creek glide,
Or play by the great bright fire inside
The house; or sit in the chimney nook,
Pleased for the hundredth time to look
Over the self-same picture-book.
Castles, and men of snow they made,
And fed with crumbs the robins, that stayed
Near the house—half tame, and half afraid.
So ever the winter-time flew fast,
And after the cold short months were past
Came the sugar-making on at last.
'T was just ere the old folks used to say,
“Now the oaks are turning gray,
'T is time for the farmer to plant away!”
Before the early bluebird was there;
Or down by the brook the willow fair
Loosed to the winds her yellow hair.
Ah! then there was life and fun enough,
In making the “spile” and setting the trough,
And all, till the time of the “stirring off.”
They followed the sturdy hired man,
With his brawny arms and face of tan,
Who gathered the sap each day as it ran,
And they thought it a very funny sight,
The yoke that he wore, like “Buck and Bright,”
Across his shoulders, broad, upright.
They watched the fires, with awe profound,
Go lapping the great black kettles round,
And out the chimney, with rushing sound.
They loved the noise of the brook, that slid
Swift under its icy, broken lid,
And they knew where that delicate flower was hid,
That first in March her head upheaves;
And they found the tender “adam-and-eves”
Beneath their bower of glossy leaves.
They gathered spice-wood and ginseng roots,
And the boy could fashion whistles and flutes
Out of the paw-pan and walnut shoots.
So every season its pleasure found;
Though the children never strayed beyond
The dear old hills that hemmed them round.

THE PLAYMATES.

Behind the cottage the mill—creek flowed,
And before it, white and winding, showed
The narrow track of the winter road,
The creek when low, showed a sandy floor,
And many a green old sycamore
Threw its shade in summer from shore to shore.
And just a quiet country lane,
Fringed close by fields of grass and grain,
Was the crooked road that crossed the plain.
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Out of the fragrant fennel's bed
On its bank, the purple iron-weed spread
Her broad top over the mullein's head.
Off through the straggling town it wound,
Then led you down to beech-wood pond,
And up to the school-house, just beyond.
Not far away was a wood's deep shade
Where, larger grown, the boy and maid,
Searching for flowers and berries, strayed,
And oft they went the field-paths through,
Where all the things she liked he knew,
And the very places where they grew.
The hidden nook where Nature set
The wind-flower and the violet,
And the mountain-fringe in hollows wet.
The solomon's-seal, of gold so fine,
And the king-cup, holding its dewy wine
Up to the crownèd dandèlion.
He gathered the ripe nuts in the fall,
And berries that grew by fence and wall
So high she could not reach them at all.
The fruit of the hawthorn, black and red,
Wild grapes, and the hip that came instead,
Of the sweet wild roses, faded and dead.
Then the curious ways of birds he knew,
And where they lived the season through,
And how they built, and sang, and flew.
Sometimes the boughs he bended down,
And Bethy counted with eyes that shone,
Eggs, white and speckled, blue and brown.
And oft they watched with wondering eye
The swallows, up on the rafters high
Teaching their timid young to fly.
For many a dull and rainy day
They wiled the hours till night away
Up in the mow on the scented hay.
And many a dress was soiled and torn
In climbing about the dusty barn
And up to the lofts of wheat and corn.
For they loved to hear on the roof, the rain,
And to count the bins, again and again,
Heaped with their treasures of golden grain.
They played with the maize's sword-like leaves,
And tossed the rye and the oaten sheaves,
In autumn piled to the very eaves.
They peeped in the stalls where the cattle fed,
They fixed their swing to the beam o'erhead,—
Turned the wind-mill, huge, and round, and red.
And the treasure of treasures, the pet and toy,
The source alike of his care and joy,
Was the timid girl to the brave bright boy.
When they went to school, her hand he took,
Lead her, and helped her over stile and brook,
And carried her basket, slate, and book.
And he was a scholar, if Bethy said true,
The hardest book he could read right through,
And there was n't a “sum” that he could n't “do!”
Oh, youth, whatever we lose or secure,
One good we can all keep safe and sure,
Who remember a childhood, happy and pure!
And hard indeed must a man be made,
By the toil and traffic of gain and trade,
Who loves not the spot where a boy he played.
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And I pity that woman, or grave or gay,
Who keeps not fresh in her heart alway
The tender dreams of her life's young day!

THE SCHOOL.

Swiftly the seasons sped away,
And soon to our children came the day
When their life had work as well as play.
When they trudged each morn to the school-house set
Where the winter road and the highway met—
Ah! how plainly I see it yet!
With its noisy play-ground trampled so
By the quick feet, running to and fro,
That not a blade of grass could grow.
And the maple-grove across the road,
The hollow where the cool spring flowed,
And greenly the mint and calamus showed.
And the house—unpainted, dingy, low,
Shielded a little from sun and snow,
By its three stiff locusts, in a row.
I can see the floor, all dusty and bare,
The benches hacked, the drawings rare
On the walls, and the master's desk and chair:
And himself, not withered, cross, and grim,
But a youth, well-favored, shy, and slim;
More awed by the girls than they by him.
With a poet's eye and a lover's voice,
Unused to the ways of rustic boys,
And shrinking from all rude speech and noise.
Where is he? Where should we find again
The children who played together there?
If alive, sad women and thoughtful men:
Where now is Eleanor proud and fine?
And where is dark-eyed Angivine,
Rebecca, Annie, and Caroline?
And timid Lucy with pale gold hair,
And soft brown eyes that unaware
Drew your heart to her, and held it there?
There was blushing Rose, the beauty and pride
Of her home, and all the country side;
She was the first we loved who died.
And the joy and pride of our life's young years,
The one we loved without doubts or fears,
Alas! to-day he is named with tears.
And Alice, with quiet, thoughtful way
Yet joining always in fun and play,
God knows she is changed enough today!
I think of the boy no father claimed,
Of him, a fall from the swing had lamed,
And the girl whose hand in the mill was maimed.
And the lad too sick and sad to play,
Who ceased to come to school one day,
And on the next he had passed away.
And I know the look the master wore
When he told us our mate of the day before
Would never be with us any more!
And how on a grassy slope he was laid—
We could see the place from where we played—
A sight to make young hearts afraid.
Sometimes we went by two and three,
And read on his tombstone thoughtfully,
“As I am now so you must be.”
Brothers with brothers fighting, slain,
From out those school-boys some have lain
Their bones to bleach on the battle-plain.
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Some have wandered o'er lands and seas,
Some haply sit in families,
With children's children on their knees.
Some may have gone in sin astray,
Many asleep by their kindred lay,
Dust to dust, till the judgment day!

YOUTH AND MAIDEN.

A half score years have sped away
Since Robert and Bethy used to play
About the yard and the mill, all day.
For time must go, whatever we do;
And the boy as it went, to manhood grew,
Steady and honest, good and true.
Going on with the mill, when his father died;
He lived untempted there, untried,
Knowing little of life beside.
Striving not to be rich or great,
Never questioning fortune or fate,
Contented slowly to earn, and wait.
Doing the work that was near his hand,
Still of Bethy he thought and planned,
To him the flower of all the land.
And tall shy Bethy more quiet seems,
With a tenderer light her soft eye beams,
And her thoughts are vague as the dream of dreams.
Oft she sings in an undertone
Of fears and sorrows not her own,—
The pains that love-lorn maids have known.
Does she think as she breathes the tender sigh,
Of the lover that's coming, by and by?
If she will not tell you, how should I?
And when she walks in the evening bland
Over the rich Squire's pleasant land,
Does she long to be a lady, grand,
And to have her fingers, soft and white,
Lie in her lap, with jewels bright,
And with never a task from morn till night?
Often, walking about the place,
With bended head and thoughtful face,
She meets the owner face to face.
Sometimes he eyes her wistfully,
As blushing with rustic modesty,
She drops him a pretty courtesy,
And looks as if inclined to say
Some friendly word to bid her stay,
Then, silent, turns abrupt away.
And though to speak she never dares,
She is sad to think that no one cares
For the lonely man, with thin gray hairs.
The good-wife, just as the girl was grown,
Went from the places she had known,
And the gardener and Bethy live alone.

THE COUNTRY GRAVE—YARD.

So she goes sometimes past Dovecote Mill,
To the place of humble graves on the hill,
Where the mother rests in the shadows still.
Here, sleeping well as the sons of fame,
Lie youth and maiden, sire and dame,
With never a record but their name.
And some, their very names forgot,
Not even a stone to mark the spot,
Yet sleep in peace; so it matters not!
Here lieth one, who shouldered his gun,
When the news was brought from Lexington:
And laid it down, when peace was won.
Still he wore his coat of “army blue,”
Silver buckles on knee and shoe,
And sometimes even his good sword, too.
For however the world might change or gaze,
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He kept his ancient dress and ways,
Nor learned the fashion of modern days.
But here he had laid aside his staff,
And you read half-worn, and guessed it half
His quaint and self-made epitaph,—
“Stoop down, my friends, and view his dust
Who turned out one among the first
To secure the rights you hold in trust.
“Support the Constitution, plain!
By being united we form the chain
That binds the tyrant o'er the main!”
Here from the good dead shut away
By a dismal paling, broken and gray,
Down in the lonesomest corner lay,
A baby, dead in its life's first spring,
And its hapless mother, a fair sad thing,
Who never wore a wedding ring!
Often the maiden's steps are led
Away to a lonely, grassy bed,
With a marble headstone at its head:
And carved there for memorial,
Half hid by the willow branches' fall,
The one word, “Mercy,” that is all.
Whether her life had praise or blame,
All that was told was just the same,
She was a woman, this her name.
What beside there was naught to show,
Though always Bethy longed to know
The story of her who slept below.
What had she been ere she joined the dead;—
Was she bowed with years, or young instead;
Was she a maiden, or was she wed?
Never another footstep here
But the maiden's seemed to come anear,
Yet flowers were blooming from year to year.
Something, whether of good or harm,
Down to the dead one, like a charm
Drew the living heart, fresh and warm;
Yet haunts more cheerful our Bethy had,
For youth loves not the things that are sad,
But turns to the hopeful and the glad.
Though somehow she has grown more shy,
More silent than in days gone by,
Whenever the tall young miller is nigh.
As they walk together, grave and slow,
No longer hand in hand they go:
Who can tell what has changed them so?
Till the sea shall cease to kiss the shore,
Till men and maidens shall be no more,
'T is the same old story, o'er and o'er.
Secret hoping, and secret fears,
Blushing and sighing, smiles and tears,
The charm and the glory of life's young years!

WOOING.

Now in the waning autumn days
The dull red sun, with lurid blaze,
Shines through the soft and smoky haze.
Fallen across the garden bed,
Many a flower that reared its head
Proudly in summer, lies stiff and dead.
The pinks and roses have ceased to blow,
The foxgloves stand in a long black row,
And the daffodils perished long ago.
Now the poplar rears his yellow spire,
The maple lights his funeral pyre,
And the dog-wood burns like a bush of fire.
The harvest fields are bare again,
The barns are filled to the full with grain
And the orchard trees of their load complain.
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Huge sacks of corn o'er the floor are strewn,
And Dovecote Mill grinds on and on,
And the miller's work seems never done.
But now 't is the Sabbath eve, and still
For a little while is the noisy mill,
And Robert is free to go where he will.
But think or do whatever he may,
The face of Bethy he sees alway
Just as she looked in the choir to-day.
And as his thoughts the picture paint,
The hope within his heart grows faint,
As it might before a passionless saint.
Looking away from the book on her knees,
Pretty Bethy at sunset sees,
Some one under the sycamore trees,
Walking and musing slow, apart;—
But why should the blood with sudden start,
Leap to her cheek from her foolish heart?
Oh, if he came now, and if he spake,
What answer should she, could she make?
This was the way her thought would take.
Now, troubled maid on the cottage sill,
Be wise, and keep your pulses still,
He has turned, he is coming up the hill!
How he spake, or she made reply,
How she came on his breast to lie,
She could not tell you, better than I.
But when the stars came out in the skies
He has told his love, in whispered sighs,
And she has answered, with downcast eyes.
For somehow, since the world went round,
For men who are simple, or men profound,
Hath a time and a way to woo been found.
And maids, for a thousand, thousand years,
With trusting hopes, or trembling fears
Have answered blushing through smiles and tears.
And why should these two lovers have more
Of thoughtless folly or wisdom's lore
Than all the world who have lived before?
Nay, she gives her hand to him who won
Her heart, and she says, when this is done,
There is no other under the sun
Could be to her what he hath been;
For he to her girlish fancy then
Was the only man in the world of men.
She is ready to take his hand and name,
For better or worse, for honor or blame;—
God grant it may alway be the same.

PLIGHTED.

Oh, the tender joy of those autumn hours,
When fancy clothed with spring the bowers,
And the dead leaves under the feet seemed flowers!
Oh, the blessèd, blessèd days of youth,
When the heart is filled with gentle ruth,
And lovers take their dreams for truth.
Oh, the hopes they had, and the plans they planned,
The man and the maid, as hand in hand,
They walked in a fair, enchanted land!
Marred with no jealousy, fear, or doubt,
At worst, but a little pet or pout,
Just for the “making up,” no doubt!
Have I said how looked our wood nymph, wild?
And how in these days she always smiled,
Guileless and glad as a little child?
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Her voice had a tender pleading tone,
She was just a rose-bud, almost grown
And before its leaves are fully blown.
Graceful and tall as a lily fair,
The peach lent the bloom to her blushes rare,
And the thrush the brown of her rippling hair.
Colored with violet, blue were her eyes,
Stolen from the breeze her gentle sighs,
And her soul was borrowed from the skies.
And you, if a man, could hardly fail,
If you saw her tripping down the dale,
To think her a Princess of fairy tale;
Doomed for a time by charm or spell,
Deep in some lonely, haunted dell,
With mischief-loving elves to dwell.
Or bound for a season, body and soul,
Underneath a great green knoll,
To live alone with a wicked Troll.
You would have feared her form so slight
Would vanish into the air or light,
Or sudden, sink in the earth from sight.
And you must have looked, and longed to see
The handsome Prince who should set her free
Come riding his good steed gallantly.
Just as fair as the good year's prime,
To our lovers was the cold and rime,
For their bright lives had no winter-time.
The drifts might pile, and the winds might blow,
Still, up from the mill to the cottage, low,
There was a straight path cut through the snow.
And it only added another charm
To the cheerful hearth, secure and warm,
To hear on the roof and pane, the storm.
Sometimes Bethy would lightly say,
Partly in earnest, partly in play,—
“I wish it would never again be May!”
And he would answer, half pleased, half tried,
As he drew her nearer to his side,
“Nay, nay, for in spring I shall have my bride.”
And she 'd cry in a pretty childish pet,
“Ah! then you must have whom you can get;
I shall not marry for ages yet.”
Then gravely he 'd shake his head at this:
But things went never so far amiss
They were not righted at last by a kiss.
And so the seasons sped merry and fast,
And the budding spring-time came, and passed,
And the wedding day was set at last.
With never a quarrel, scarce a fear,
Each to the other growing more dear,
They kept their wooing a whole sweet year.

WEDDED.

In the village church where a child she was led,
Where a maiden she sang in the choir o'erhead,
There were Bethy and Robert wed.
Strong, yet tender and good looked he,
As he took her almost reverently,
And she was a pleasant sight to see.
And men and women, far and wide,
Came from village and country side
To wish them joy and to greet the bride.
The friends who knew them since they were born,
Each with his best and bravest worn
Did honor to them on their marriage morn.
But one at the church was heard to say:
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“The Squire, whom none has seen to-day,
Might have given the bride away,
“Yet his is a face 't were best to miss;
And what could he do at a time like this,
But be a cloud on its happiness?
“So let him stay with his gloom and pride,
For he is not fit to sit beside
The wedding guests, or to kiss the bride.”
But Bethy, her heart was soft you know,
To herself, as she heard it, whispered low,
“Who knows what sorrow has made him so?”
And looking away towards the gloomy hall,
And then at the bridegroom fine and tall,
She said, “I wish he had come for all!”
Home through the green and shady lane,
The way their childish feet had ta'en,
They came as man and wife again.
Just to the low old cottage here,
Among the friends and places dear
(For the gardener was not dead a year).
And why, as the great do, should they range?
They needs must find enough of change,
They are come to a world that is new and strange.
Lovingly eventide comes on,
The feast is eaten, the friends are gone,
And wife and husband are left alone.
In kindly parting they have prest
The hand of every lingering guest,
And now they shut us out with the rest.
Oh, joy too sacred to look upon,
The very angels may leave alone,
Two happy souls by love made one!
But whatever they gain or whatever they miss,
The poor have no time in a world like this,
To waste in sorrow or happiness.
For men who have their bread to earn
Must plant and gather and grind the corn,
And the miller goes to the mill at morn.
He blushes a little, it may be,
As with jokes about his family
The rough hands tease him merrily.
But lightly, gayly, as he replies,
A braver, prouder light in his eyes
Shows that he loves and can guard his prize.
And the voice o'er the roar of the mill-wheel heard,
In the house is as soft in every word,
As if the wife were some timid bird;
And he strokes her hair as we handle such
Dear things that we love to pet so much,
And yet are half afraid to touch.
And Bethy, pretty, young, and gay,
Trying the strange new matron way,
Seems to “make believe,” like a child at play,
In and out the whole day long,
At work in the house, or her flowers among,
You scarce can hear the birds for her song.
Though many times does she steal, I ween,
A glance at the mill, the blinds between,
Blushing, and careful not to be seen.
But busy with sewing, broom, or meal,
Swiftly away the moments steal,
And she hears the last slow turn of the wheel.
And the miller glad, but tired and slow,
Comes, looking white as the man of snow
They made in the winter, long ago.
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Oft the cottage door is opened wide,
Before his hand the latch has tried,
By the eager wife who waits inside.
Though sometimes out from a hiding-place,
She slyly peeps, when he comes, to trace
The puzzled wonder of his face.
And she loves to see the glad surprise,
That, when from her secret nook she flies,
Shines in his happy, laughing eyes.
And he, before from his hand she slips,
Leaves the mark on her waist of finger tips,
And powders her pretty face and lips.

THE BABY.

O'er the miller's cottage the seasons glide,
And at the next year's Christmas-tide
We see her a mother, we saw a bride.
All in the spring was the brown flax spun,
All in the summer it bleached in the sun;
In the autumn days was the sewing done.
And just when the Babe was born of old,
Close wrapped in many a dainty fold,
She gave the mother her babe to hold.
Ah, sweetly the maiden's ditties rung,
And sweet was the song the young wife sung;
But never trembled yet on her tongue,
Such tender notes as the lullabies,
That now beside the cradle rise
Where softly sleeping the baby lies.
And the child has made the father grow
Prouder, as all who see may know,
Than he was of his bride, a year ago.
He kinder too has grown to all,
And oft as the gloomy shadows fall,
He speaks of the Squire in his lonely hall.
And Bethy, even more tender grown,
Says, almost with tears in her tone,
How he 's growing old in his home alone.
For now, that her life is so bright and fair,
She thinks of all men with griefs to bear;
And of sorrowful women everywhere,
Who sit with empty hands to hold,
And weep for babies dead and cold,—
And of such as never had babes to hold.
So the miller and wife live on in their cot
Untroubled, content with what they have got;—
Hath the whole wide world a happier lot?
And the neighbors all about declare,
That never a better, handsomer pair,
Are seen at market, church, or fair.
So free from envy, pride, or guile,
They keep their rustic simple style,
And bask in fortune's kindliest smile.
Though time and tide must go as they will,
And change must even cross the sill
Of the happy Miller of Dovecote Mill.

THE FATHER.

Hushed is the even-song of the bird,
Naught but the katydid is heard,
And the sound of leaves by the night wind stirred.
Swarms of fireflies rise and shine
Out of the green grass, short and fine,
Where, dotting the meadows, sleep the kine.
And the bees, done flying to and fro,
In the fields of buckwheat, white as snow,
Cling to the hive, in a long black row.
Closed are the pink and the poppy red,
And the lily near them hangs her head,
And the camomile sleeps on the garden bed.
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The wheel is still that has turned all day,
And the mill stream runs unvexed away,
Under the thin mist, cool and gray,
And the little vine-clad home in the dell
With this quiet beauty suiteth well,
For it seems a place where peace should dwell.
And sitting to-night on the cottage sill
Is the wife of the Miller of Dovecote Mill,—
Quiet Bethy, thoughtful and still.
As she hears the cricket chirping low,
And the pendulum swinging to and fro,
And the child in the cradle, breathing slow;
Are her thoughts with her baby, fast asleep,
Or do they wander away, and keep
With him she waits for as night grows deep?
Or are they back to the days gone by,
When free as the birds that swing and fly,
She lived with never a care or tie?
Ah! who of us all has ever known
The hidden thought and the undertone
Of the bosom nearest to our own!
For the one we deemed devoid of art
May have lain and dreamed on our trusting heart
The dreams in which we had no part!
And Bethy, the honest miller's wife,
Whom he loves as he loves his very life,
May be with him and herself at strife.
For she was only a child that day,
When she gave her hand in the church away,
And the friends who loved her used to say,—
(For you know she was the country's pride,)
If she ever had had a suitor beside
She might not be such a willing bride!
Though never one would hint but he
Was as true and good and fair as she,
They wondered still that the match should be,
And said, were she like a lady drest,
There was not a fairer, east nor west;—
And yet it might be all for the best!
So who can guess her thoughts as her sight
Rests on the road-track, dusty and white,
The way the miller must come to-night!
Up in his gloomy house on the hill,
He lies in his chamber, white and still,—
The Squire, who owns the Dovecote Mill.
What hath the rich man been in his day?
“Hard and cruel and stern, alway;”—
This is the thing his neighbors say,
“Silent and grim as a man could be;”—
But the miller's wife, says, tenderly,
“He has always a smile for the babe and me.”
But whatever he was, in days gone by,
Let us stand in his presence reverently,
For to him the great change draweth nigh.
There the light is dim, and the June winds blow
The heavy curtains to and fro,
And the watchers, near him, whisper low.
Something the sick man asks from his bed;
Is it the leech or the priest? they said.
“Nay, bring me Bethy, here,” he said.
“Have you not heard me; will you not heed;
Go to the miller's wife with speed,
And tell her the dying of her hath need.”
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Slowly the watchers shook the head,
They knew that his poor wits wanderèd;
“Yet, now let him have his way,” they said.
So when the turn of the night has come,
She stands at his bedside, frightened, dumb,
Holding his fingers, cold and numb.
He has sent the watchers and nurse away,
And now he is keeping death at bay,
Till he rids his soul of what he would say.
“Now, hear me, Bethy. I am not wild,
As I hope to God to be reconciled,
I am thy father—thou my child!
“I loved a maiden, the noblest one
That ever the good sun shone upon:
I had wealth and honors, she had none.
“And when I wooed her, she answered me,—
‘Nay, I am too humble to wed with thee,
Let me rather thine handmaid be!’
“From home with me, for love, she fled
The night that in secret we were wed;
And she kept the secret, living and dead.
“Serving for wages duly paid,
In my home she lived, as an humble maid,
Till under the grass of the churchyard laid.
“Twenty years has remorse been fed,
Twenty years has she lain there dead,
With her sweet name Mercy, at her head.
“How you came to the world was known
But to the gardener's wife alone,
Who took, and reared you up as her own.
“Though conscience whispered, early and late,
Your child is worthy a higher fate,
Still shame and pride said, always, wait.
“But alas! a debt unpaid grows vast.
And whether it come, or slow or fast,
The day of reckoning comes at last.
“So, all there was left to do, I have done,
And the gold and the acres I have won
Shall come to you with the morning's sun.
“And may this atone; oh would that it might,
And lessen the guilt of my soul to-night,
For the one great wrong that I cannot right.”
Scarcely the daughter breathed or stirred,
As she listened close for another word;
But “Mercy!” was all that she ever heard.
She clung to his breast, she bade him stay,
But ere the words to her lips found way,
She knew the thing that she held was clay.
All that she had was a father's gold,
Never his kind warm hand to hold,
Never a kiss till his lips were cold!

THE WIFE.

Brightly the morning sunshine glowed,
As slowly, thoughtfully, Bethy trode
Towards the mill by the winter road.
Now she sees the mansion proud and gray,
And its goodly acres stretching away,
And she knows that these are hers to-day.
Glad visions surely before her rise,
For bright in her cheek the color lies,
And a strange new light in her tender eyes.
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Now she is rich, and a lady born,
Does she think of her last year's wedding morn,
And the house where she came a bride, with scorn?
And to him, unfit for a lady, grand,
To whom she gave her willing hand,
Though he brought her neither house nor land?
How will she meet him? what is his fate,
Who eager leans o'er the rustic gate
To watch her coming? Hush and wait!
No word she says as over the sill,
And into the cottage low and still,
She walks by the Miller of Dovecote Mill.
Why does she tremble, the goodman's dame.
And turn away as she speaks his name?
Is it for love, or alas! for shame?
“Last night,” she says, “as I watched for thee,
Came those from the great house hurriedly,
Who said that the master sent for me:
“That his life was burned to a feeble flame.
But sleeping or waking all the same,
And day and night he called my name.
“So I followed wondering, where they led,
And half bewildered, half in dread,
I stood at midnight by his bed.
“What matter, to tell what he said again:
The dreams perchance of a wandering brain!
Only one thing is sure and plain.
“Of his gold and land and houses fine,
All that he had, to-day is thine,
Since in dying he made them mine.
“I would that the gift were in thy name,
Yet mine or thine it is all the same;
And we must not speak of the dead with blame.
“And who but thee should be his heir?
Thou hast served him ever with faithful care,
And he had no son his name to bear!”
Slowly, as one who marveled still,
Answered the Miller of Dovecote Mill,
“'T is a puzzle, tell it how you will,
“Why his child could never better fare
Than thou, with wealth enough and to spare,
For it is not I but thou who art heir.
“'T is not so strange it should come to thee,
Thou wert fit for a lady, as all could see,
And rich or poor, too good for me.”
Meek before him she bowed her head;
“I want nor honor nor gold,” she said,
“I take my lot as it is instead.
“Keep gold and lands and houses fine,
But give me thy love, as I give thee mine,
And my wealth shall still be more than thine!
“And if I had been in a mansion bred,
And not in a humble cot,” she said,
“I think we two should still have wed.
“For if I had owned the acres grand,
Instead of the gardener's scanty land,
I had given them all for thy heart and hand.
“So, heiress or lady, what you will,
This only title I covet still,
Wife of the Miller of Dovecote Mill!”

A BALLAD OF LAUDERDALE.

A shepherd's child young Barbara grew,
A wild flower of the vale;
While gallant Duncan was the heir
Of the Laird of Lauderdale.
He sat at ease in bower and hall
With ladies gay and fine;
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She led her father's sheep at morn,
At eve she milked the kine.
O'er field and fell his steed he rode,
The foremost in the race;
She bounded graceful as the deer
He followed in the chase.
Yet oft he left his pleasant friends,
And, musing, walked apart;
For vague unrest and soft desire
Were stirring in his heart.
One morn, when others merrily
Wound horn within the wood,
He on the hill-side strayed alone,
In tender, thoughtful mood.
And there, with yellow snooded hair,
And plaid about her flung,
Tending her pretty flock of sheep,
Fair Barbara sat and sung.
The very heath-flower bent to hear,
The echoes seemed to pause,
As sweet and clear the maiden sang
The song of “Leader Haughs.”
And, while young Duncan, gazing, stood
Enchanted by the sound,
He from the arrows of her eyes
Received a mortal wound!
“Sweet maid,” he cried, “the first whose power
Hath ever held me fast;
Now take my love, or scorn my love,
You still shall be the last!”
She felt her heart with pity move,
Yet hope within her died;
She knew her friendless poverty,
She knew his wealth and pride.
“Alas! your father's scorn,” she said,
“Alas! my humble state.”
“'T were pity,” Duncan gayly cried,
But love were strong as hate!”
He took her little trembling hand,
He kissed her fears away;
“Whate'er the morrow brings,” he said,
“We 'll live and love to-day!”
So all the summer through they met,
Nor thought what might betide,
Till the purple heather all about
The hills grew brown and died.
One eve they, parting, lingered long
Together in the dell,
When suddenly a shadow black
As fate between them fell.
The hot blood rushed to Duncan's brow,
The maiden's cheek grew pale,
For right across their pathway frowned
The Laird of Lauderdale.
Ah! cruel was the word he spake,
And cruel was his deed;
He would not see the maiden's face,
Nor hear the lover plead.
He called his followers, in wrath,
They came in haste and fright;
They tore the youth from out her arms,
They bore him from her sight.
And he at eve may come no more;
Her song no more she trills;
Her cheek is whiter than the lambs
She leads along the hills.
For Barbara now is left alone
Through all the weary hours,
While Duncan pines a prisoner, fast
Within his father's towers.
And autumn goes, and spring-time comes,
And Duncan, true and bold,
Has scorned alike his father's threats
And bribes of land and gold.
And autumn goes, and spring-time comes,
And Barbara sings and smiles:
“'T is fair for love,” she softly says,
“To use love's arts and wiles.”
No other counselor hath she
But her own sweet constancy;
Yet hath her wit devised a way
To set her true love free.
One night, when slumber brooded deep
O'er all the peaceful glen,
She baked a cake, the like of which
Was never baked till then.
For first she took a slender cord,
And wound it close and small;
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Then in the barley bannock safe
She hid the mystic ball.
Next morn her father missed his child,
He searched the valley round;
But not a maid like her within
Twice twenty miles was found.
For she hath ta'en the maiden snood
And the bright curls from her head,
And now she wears the bonnet blue
Of a shepherd lad instead.
And she hath crossed the silent hills,
And crossed the lonely vale;
And safe at morn she stands before
The towers of Lauderdale.
And not a hand is raised to harm
The pretty youth and tall,
With just a bannock in his scrip,
Who stands without the wall.
Careless awhile he wanders round,
But when the daylight dies
He comes and stands beneath the tower
Where faithful Duncan lies.
Fond man! nor sunset dyes he sees,
Nor stars come out above;
His thoughts are all upon the hills,
Where first he learned to love;
When suddenly he hears a voice,
That makes his pulses start—
A sweet voice singing “Leader Haughs,”
The song that won his heart.
He leans across the casement high;
A minstrel boy he spies;
He knows the maiden of his love
Through all her strange disguise!
She made a sign, she spake no word,
And never a word spake he;
She took the bannock from her scrip
And brake it on her knee!
She threw the slender cord aloft,
He caught and made it fast;
One moment more and he is safe,
Free as the winds at last!
No time is this for speech or kiss,
No time for aught but flight;
His good steed standing in the stall
Must bear them far to-night.
So swiftly Duncan brought him forth,
He mounted hastily;
“Now, set your foot on mine,” he said,
“And give your hand to me!”
He lifts her up; they sweep the hills,
They ford the foaming beck;
He kisses soft the loving hands
That cling about his neck.
In vain at morn the Laird, in wrath,
Would follow where they fled;
They 're o'er the Border, far away,
Before the east is red.
And when the third day's sun at eve
Puts on his purple state,
Brave Duncan checks his foaming steed
Before his father's gate.
Out came the Laird, with cruel look,
With quick and angry stride;
When at his feet down knelt his son,
With Barbara at his side,
“Forgive me, father,” low he said,
No single word she spake;
But the tender face she lifted up
Plead for her lover's sake.
She raised to him her trembling hands,
In her eyes the tears were bright,
And any but a heart of stone
Had melted at the sight.
“Let love,” cried Duncan, “bear the blame,
Love would not be denied;
Fast were we wedded yestermorn,
I bring you here my bride!”
Then the Laird looked down into her eyes,
And his tears were near to fall;
He raised them both from off the ground,
He led them toward the Hall.
Wondering the mute retainers stood,
“Why give you not,” he said,
“The homage due unto my son,
And to her whom he hath wed?”
Then every knee was lowly bent,
And every head was bare;
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“Long live,” they cried, “his fair young bride,
And our master's honored heir!
Years come and go, and in his stall
The good steed idly stands;
The Laird is laid with his line to rest,
By his children's loving hands.
And now within the castle proud
They lead a happy life;
For he is Laird of Lauderdale,
And she his Lady wife.
And oft, when hand in hand they sit,
And watch the day depart,
She sings the song of “Leader Haughs,”
The song that won his heart!

THE THREE WRENS.

Mr. Wren and his dear began early one year—
They were maried, of course, on St. Valentine's Day,—
To build such a nest as was safest and best,
And to get it all finished and ready by May.
Their house, snug and fine, they set up in a vine
That sheltered a cottage from sunshine and heat:
Mrs. Wren said: “I am sure, this is nice and secure;
And besides, I can see in the house, or the street.”
Mr. Wren, who began, like a wise married man,
To check his mate's weak inclination to roam,
Shook his little brown head, and reprovingly said:
“My dear, you had better be looking at home.
“You 'll be trying the street pretty soon with your feet,
And neglecting your house and my comfort, no doubt,
And you 'll find a pretext for a call on them next,
If you watch to see what other folks are about.
“There 's your own home to see, and besides there is me,
And this visiting neighbors is nonsense and stuff!
You would like to know why? well, you 'd better not try;—
I don't choose to have you, and that is enough!”
Mrs. Wren did not say she would have her own way,—
In fact, she seemed wonderfully meek and serene;
But she thought, I am sure, though she looked so demure,
“Well I don't care; I think you 're most awfully mean!”
Mr. Wren soon flew off, thinking, likely enough,
I could manage a dozen such creatures with ease;
She began to reflect, I see what you expect,
But if I know myself, I shall look where I please!
However, at night, when he came from his flight,
Both acted as if there was nothing amiss:
Put a wing o'er their head, and went chirping to bed,
To dream of a summer of sunshine and bliss.
I need scarcely remark, they were up with the lark,
And by noon they were tired of work without play;
And thought it was best for the present to rest,
And then finish their task in the cool of the day.
So, concealed by the leaves that grew thick to the eaves,
He shut himself in, and he shut the world out;—
“Now,” said she, “he 's asleep, I will just take a peep
In the cottage, and see what the folks are about.”
Then she looked very sly, from her perch safe and high,
Through the great open window, left wide for the sun;
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And she said: “I can't see what the danger can be,
I am sure here is nothing to fear or to shun!
“There 's an old stupid cat, half asleep on the mat,
But I think she 's too lazy to stir or to walk;—
Oh, you just want to show your importance, I know,
But you can't frighten me, Mr. Wren, with your talk!
“Now to have my own will, I 'll step down on that sill;
I 'm not an inquisitive person—oh, no;
I don't want to see what 's improper for me,
But I like to find out for myself that it 's so.”
Then this rash little wren hopped on farther again,
And grown bolder, flew in, and sat perched on a chair;
Saying, “What there is here that is dreadful or queer,
I have n't been able to find, I declare.
“Well, I wish for your sake, Mr. Wren, you would wake,
And see what effect all your warning has had;
Ah! I 'll call up that cat, and we 'll have a nice chat,
And rouse him with talking—oh, won't he be mad!”
So she cried, loud and clear, “Good-day, Tabby, my dear!
I think neighbors a neighborly feeling should show.”
“How your friendliness charms,” said Puss; “come to my arms,
I have had my eye on you some time, do you know!”
Something like a sharp snap broke that moment his nap,
And Mr. Wren said, with a stretch and a wink:
“I suppose, dear, your sleep has been tranquil and deep;
I just lost myself for a moment, I think.
“Why! she 's gone, I declare! well, I 'd like to know where?”
And his head up and down peering round him he dips;
All he saw in the gloom of the shadowy room,
Was an innocent cat meekly licking her lips!
“'T is too bad she 's away; for, of course, I can't stay,”
Said the great Mr. Wren, “shut in this little space:
We must come and must go, but these females, you know,
Never need any changes of work or of place.
And then he began, like a badly-used man;
To twitter and chirp with an impatient cry;
But soon pausing, sang out, “She 's gone off in a pout,
But if she prefers being alone, so do I!
“Yet the place is quite still, so I 'll whistle until
She returns to her home full of shame and remorse;
I 'm not lonesome at all, but it 's no harm to call;
She 'll come back fast enough when she hears me, of course!”
So he started his tune, but broke off very soon,
As if he'd been wasting his time, like a dunce;
For he suddenly caught at a very wise thought,
And he altered his whole plan of action at once.
“Now, that cat,” he exclaimed, “may be wrongfully blamed;
And since it 's a delicate matter to broach,
I don't say of her, that she is not sans peur,
But I 'm sure in this matter she 's not sans reproche!
“Ah! I can't love a wren, as I loved her, again,
But I 'll try to be manly and act as I ought;
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And the birds in the trees, like the fish in the seas,
May be just as good ones as ever were caught.
“And if one in the hand, as all men understand,
Is worth two in the bush,” Mr. Wren gravely said,
“Then it seems to me plain, by that same rule again,
That a bird in the bush is worth two that are dead.”
So he dropped his sad note, and he smoothed down his coat,
Till his late-ruffled plumage shone glossy and bright;
And light as a breeze, through the fields and the trees,
He floated and caroled till lost to the sight.
And in no longer time than it takes for my rhyme,—
Now would you believe it? and is n't it strange!—
He returned all elate, bringing home a new mate:
But birds are but birds, and are given to change.
Of course, larger folks are quite crushed by such strokes,
And never are guilty of like fickle freaks;—
Ah! a bird's woe is brief, but our great human grief
Will sometimes affect us for days and for weeks!
But this does not belong of good right to my song.
For I started to tell about birds and their kind:
So I 'll say Mr. Wren, when he married again,
Took a wife who had not an inquiring mind.
For he said what was true: “Mrs. Wren, number two,
You would not have had such good fortune, my dear,
If the first, who is dead, had believed what I said,
And contented herself in her own proper sphere.”
Now, to some it might seem like the very extreme
Of folly to ask what you know very well;
But this Mrs. Wren did, and behaved as he bid,
Never asking the wherefore, and he did n't tell.
Yes, this meek little bird never thought, never stirred,
Without craving leave in the properest way:
She said, with the rest, “Shall I sit on my nest
For three weeks or thirteen? I 'll do just as you say!”
Now I think, in the main, it is best to explain
The right and the reason of what we command;
But he would n't, not he; a poor female was she,
And he was a male bird as large as your hand!
And one more thing, I find, is borne in on my mind:
Mr. Wren may be right, but it seems to me strange,
That while both his grief and his love were so brief,
He should claim such devotion and trust in exchange!
And yet I 've been told, that with birds young and old,
All the males should direct, all the females obey;
Though, to speak for a bird, so at least I have heard,
You must be one:—as I never was, I can't say!

DOROTHY'S DOWER.

IN THREE PARTS.

PART I.

“My sweetest Dorothy,” said John,
Of course before the wedding,
As metaphorically he stood,
His gold upon her shedding,
“Whatever thing you wish or want
Shall be hereafter granted,
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For all my worldly goods are yours.”
The fellow was enchanted!
“About that little dower you have,
You thought might yet come handy,
Throw it away, do what you please,
Spend it on sugar-candy!
I like your sweet, dependent ways,
I love you when you tease me;
The more you ask, the more you spend,
The better you will please me.”

PART II.

“Confound it, Dorothy!” said John,
“I have n't got it by me.
You have n't, have you, spent that sum,
The dower from Aunt Jemima?
No; well that 's sensible for you;
This fix is most unpleasant;
But money 's tight, so just take yours
And use it for the present.
Now I must go—to—meet a man!
By George! I 'll have to borrow!
Lend me a twenty—that 's all right!
I 'll pay you back to-morrow.”

PART III.

“Madam,” says John to Dorothy,
And past her rudely pushes,
“You think a man is made of gold,
And money grows on bushes!
Tom's shoes! your doctor! Can't you now
Get up some new disaster?
You and your children are enough
To break John Jacob Astor.
Where 's what you had yourself when I
Was fool enough to court you?
That little sum, till you got me,
'T was what had to support you!”
“It 's lent and gone, not very far;
Pray don't be apprehensive.”
“Lent! I 've had use enough for it:
My family is expensive.
I did n't, as a woman would,
Spend it on sugar-candy!”
“No, John, I think the most of it
Went for cigars and brandy!”

BLACK RANALD.

In the time when the little flowers are born,
The joyfulest time of the year,
Fair Marion from the Hall rode forth
To chase the fleet red deer.
She moved among her comely maids
With such a stately mien
That they seemed like humble violets
By the side of a lily queen.
For she, of beauties fair, was named
The fairest in the land;
And lovelorn youths had pined and died
For the clasp of her lady hand.
But never suitor yet had pressed
Her dainty finger-tips;
And never cheek that wore a beard
Had touched her maiden lips.
She laughed and danced, she laughed and sang;
She bade her lovers wait;
Till the gallant Stuart Græme, one morn,
Checked rein at her father's gate.
She blushed and sighed; she laughed no more;
She sang a low refrain;
And, when the bold young Stuart wooed,
He did not woo in vain.
And now, as to the chase she rides,
Across her father's land,
She wears a bright betrothal ring
Upon her snowy hand.
She loosed the rein, she touched the flank
Of her royal red-roan steed.
“Now, who among my friends,” she said,
“Will vie with me in speed?”
She looked at Græme before them all,
Though her face was rosy red.
“He who can catch me as I ride
Shall be my squire,” she said.
Away! they scarce can follow
Even with their eager eyes;
She clears the stream, she skims the plain
Swift as the swallow flies.
Alack! no charger in the train
Can match with hers to-day;
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The very deer-hounds, left behind,
Are yelling in dismay.
Far out upon the lonely moor
Her speed she checks at last;
One single horseman follows her,
With hoof-strokes gaining fast.
She 's smiling softly to herself,
She 's speaking soft and low:
“None but the gallant Stuart Græme
Could follow where I go!”
She wheels her horse: she sees a sight
That makes her pulses stand;
Her very cheek, but now so red,
Grows whiter than her hand.
For, while no friend she sees the way
Her frightened eyes look back,
Black Ranald, of the Haunted Tower,
Is close upon her track!
He 's gained her side; he 's seized her rein—
The cruelest man in the land;
And he has clasped her virgin waist
With his wicked, wicked hand.
She feels his breath upon her face,
She hears his mocking tone,
As he lifts her from her red-roan steed
And sets her on his own.
“Proud Mistress Marion,” he cries,
“In spite of all your scorn,
Black Ranald is your squire to-day,
He 'll be your lord at morn!”
She hears no more, she sees no more,
For many a weary hour,
Till from her deadly swoon she wakes
In Ranald's Haunted Tower.
For, in the highest turret there,
With never a friend in call,
He has tied her hands with a silver chain
And bound them to the wall.
She fears no ghosts that haunt the dark,
But she fears the coming dawn;
And her heart grows sick when at day she hears
The prison-bolts withdrawn.
She summons all her strength, as they
Who for the headsman wait;
And she prays to every virgin saint
To help her in her strait;
For she sees her jailer cross the sill.
“Now, if you will wed with me,”
He said, “henceforth of my house and land
You shall queen and ruler be.”
“Bold Ranald of the Tower,” she said,
“With heart as black as your name,
I will only be the bride of Death
Or the bride of Stuart Græme.
“I will make the coldest, darkest bed
In the dismal church-yard mine,
And lay me down to sleep in it,
Or ever I sleep in thine!”
“I shall tame you yet, proud girl,” he cried,
“For you shall not be free,
Nor bread nor wine shall pass your lips
Till you vow to wed with me!”
She turned; she laughed in his very face:
“Sir Knave, your threats are vain;
Nor bread nor wine shall pass my lips
Till I am free again!”
He echoed back her mocking laugh,
He turned him on his heel;
When something smote upon his ear
Like the ringing clang of steel.
The bolts are snapped; the strong door falls;
The Græme is standing there;
And a hundred armèd men at his back
Are swarming up the stair!
Black Ranald put his horn to his lips
And blew a warning note.
“Your followers lie,” brave Stuart said,
“Six deep within the moat!
“Alone, a prisoner in your tower,
Now yield, or you are dead!”
Black Ranald gnashed his teeth in rage,
“I yield to none,” he said.
They drew their swords. “Now die the death,”
Said Græme, “you merit well.”
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And as he spake, at Marion's feet
The lifeless Ranald fell.
The Stuart raised the death-pale maid;
He broke her silver chain;
He bore her down, and set her safe
On her good red-roan again.
Now closely at his side she rides,
Nor heeds them one and all;
And his hand ne'er quits her bridle-rein
Till they reach her father's Hall.
Then the glad sire clasps that hand in his own,
While the tears to his beard drop slow;
“You have saved my child and rid the land,”
He cries, “of a cruel foe;
“And if this maiden say not nay,”—
Her cheeks burned like a flame,—
“Then you shall be my son to-night,
And she shall bear your name.”
They have set the lights in every room;
They have spread the wedding-feast;
And from the neighboring cloister's cell
They have brought the holy priest.
And she is a captive once again—
The timid, tender dove!
For she slipped the silver chain to wear
The golden chain of love!
Sweet Marion, under her snow-white veil,
Stands fast by her captor's side,
As he binds her hands with the marriage-ring
And kisses her first, a bride!

THE LEAK IN THE DIKE.

A STORY OF HOLLAND.

The good dame looked from her cottage
At the close of the pleasant day,
And cheerily called to her little son
Outside the door at play:
“Come, Peter, come! I want you to go,
While there is light to see,
To the hut of the blind old man who lives
Across the dike, for me;
And take these cakes I made for him—
They are hot and smoking yet;
You have time enough to go and come
Before the sun is set.”
Then the good-wife turned to her labor,
Humming a simple song,
And thought of her husband, working hard
At the sluices all day long;
And set the turf a-blazing,
And brought the coarse black bread;
That he might find a fire at night,
And find the table spread.
And Peter left the brother,
With whom all day he had played,
And the sister who had watched their sports
In the willow's tender shade;
And told them they 'd see him back before
They saw a star in sight,
Though he would n't be afraid to go
In the very darkest night!
For he was a brave, bright fellow,
With eye and conscience clear;
He could do whatever a boy might do,
And he had not learned to fear.
Why, he would n't have robbed a bird's nest,
Nor brought a stork to harm,
Though never a law in Holland
Had stood to stay his arm!
And now, with his face all glowing,
And eyes as bright as the day
With the thoughts of his pleasant errand,
He trudged along the way;
And soon his joyous prattle
Made glad a lonesome place—
Alas! if only the blind old man
Could have seen that happy face!
Yet he somehow caught the brightness
Which his voice and presence lent;
And he felt the sunshine come and go
As Peter came and went.
And now, as the day was sinking,
And the winds began to rise,
The mother looked from her door again,
Shading her anxious eyes;
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And saw the shadows deepen
And birds to their homes come back,
But never a sign of Peter
Along the level track.
But she said: “He will come at morning,
So I need not fret or grieve—
Though it is n't like my boy at all
To stay without my leave.”
But where was the child delaying?
On the homeward way was he,
And across the dike while the sun was up
An hour above the sea.
He was stopping now to gather flowers,
Now listening to the sound,
As the angry waters dashed themselves
Against their narrow bound.
“Ah! well for us,” said Peter,
“That the gates are good and strong,
And my father tends them carefully,
Or they would not hold you long!
You 're a wicked sea.” said Peter;
“I know why you fret and chafe;
You would like to spoil our lands and homes;
But our sluices keep you safe!”
But hark! Through the noise of waters
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound;
And the child's face pales with terror,
And his blossoms drop to the ground.
He is up the bank in a moment,
And, stealing through the sand,
He sees a stream not yet so large
As his slender, childish hand.
'T is a leak in the dike! He is but a boy,
Unused to fearful scenes;
But, young as he is, he has learned to know
The dreadful thing that means.
A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart
Grows faint that cry to hear,
And the bravest man in all the land
Turns white with mortal fear.
For he knows the smallest leak may grow
To a flood in a single night;
And he knows the strength of the cruel sea
When loosed in its angry might.
And the boy! He has seen the danger,
And, shouting a wild alarm,
He forces back the weight of the sea
With the strength of his single arm!
He listens for the joyful sound
Of a footstep passing nigh;
And lays his ear to the ground, to catch
The answer to his cry.
And he hears the rough winds blowing,
And the waters rise and fall,
But never an answer comes to him,
Save the echo of his call.
He sees no hope, no succor,
His feeble voice is lost;
Yet what shall he do but watch and wait,
Though he perish at his post!
So, faintly calling and crying
Till the sun is under the sea;
Crying and moaning till the stars
Come out for company;
He thinks of his brother and sister,
Asleep in their safe warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,
Of himself as dying—and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last:
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.
The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all night.
And now she watches the pathway,
As yester eve she had done;
But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?
Her neighbors are bearing between them
Something straight to her door;
Her child is coming home, but not
As he ever came before!
“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!”
And the startled father hears,
And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears:
Till a glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife—
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“Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,
And God has saved his life!”
So, there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy;
And every head was bared and bent
In tearful, reverent joy.
'T is many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do
Who is brave and true and good.
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.
They have many a valiant hero,
Remembered through the years:
But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.
And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told to the child on the knee,
So long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea!

THE LANDLORD OF THE BLUE HEN.

Once, a long time ago, so good stories begin,
There stood by a roadside an old-fashioned inn;
An inn, which the landlord had named “The Blue Hen,”
While he, by his neighbors, was called “Uncle Ben;”
At least, they quite often addressed him that way
When ready to drink but not ready to pay;
Though when he insisted on having the cash,
They went off, muttering “Rummy,” and “Old Brandy Smash.”
He sold barrels of liquor, but still the old “Hen”
Seemed never to flourish, and neither did “Ben;”
For he drank up the profits, as every one knew,
Even those who were drinking their profits up, too.
So, with all they could drink, and with all they could pay,
The landlord grew poorer and poorer each day;
Men said, as he took down the gin from the shelf,
“The steadiest customer there was himself.”
There was hardly a man living in the same street
But had too much to drink and too little to eat;
The women about the old “Hen” got the blues;
The girls had no bonnets, the boys had no shoes.
When a poor fellow died, he was borne on his bier
By his comrades, whose hands shook with brandy and fear;
For of course, they were terribly frightened, and yet,
They went back to “The Blue Hen” to drink and forget!
There was one jovial farmer who could n't get by
The door of “The Blue Hen” without feeling dry;
One day he discovered his purse growing light,
“There must be a leak somewhere,” he said. He was right!
Then there was the blacksmith (the best ever known
Folks said, if he 'd only let liquor alone)
Let his forge cool so often, at last he forgot
To heat up his iron and strike when 't was hot.
Once a miller, going home from “The Blue Hen,” 't was said,
While his wife sat and wept by his sick baby's bed,
Had made a false step, and slept all night alone
In the bed of the river, instead of his own.
Even poor “Ben” himself could not drink of the cup
Of fire forever without burning up;
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He grew sick, fell to raving, declared that he knew
No doctors could help him; and they said so, too.
He told those about him, the ghosts of the men
Who used in their life-times to haunt “The Blue Hen,
Had come back each one bringing his children and wife,
And trying to frighten him out of his life.
Now he thought he was burning; the very next breath
He shivered and cried, he was freezing to death;
That the peddler lay by him, who, long years ago,
Was put out of “The Blue Hen,” and died in the snow.
He said that the blacksmith who turned to a sot,
Laid him out on an anvil and beat him, red-hot;
That the builder, who swallowed his brandy fourth proof,
Was pitching him downward, head first, from the roof.
At last he grew frantic; he clutched at the sheet,
And cried that the miller had hold of his feet;
Then leaped from his bed with a terrible scream,
That the dead man was dragging him under the stream.
Then he ran, and so swift that no mortal could save;
He went over the bank and went under the wave;
And his poor lifeless body next morning was found
In the very same spot where the miller was drowned.
“'T was n't liquor that killed him,” some said, “that was plain;
He was crazy, and sober folks might be insane!”
“'T was delirium tremens,” the coroner said,
But whatever it was, he was certainly dead!

THE KING'S JEWEL.

'T was a night to make the bravest
Shrink from the tempest's breath,
For the winter snows were bitter,
And the winds were cruel as death.
All day on the roofs of Warsaw
Had the white storm sifted down
Till it almost hid the humble huts
Of the poor, outside the town.
And it beat upon one low cottage
With a sort of reckless spite
As if to add to their wretchedness
Who sat by its hearth that night;
Where Dorby, the Polish peasant,
Took his pale wife by the hand,
And told her that when the morrow came
They would have no home in the land.
No human hand would aid him
With the rent that was due at morn;
And his cold, hard-hearted landlord
Had spurned his prayers with scorn.
Then the poor man took his Bible,
And read, while his eyes grew dim,
To see if any comfort
Were written there for him;
When he suddenly heard a knocking
On the casement, soft and light;
It was n't the storm; but what else could be
Abroad in such a night?
Then he went and opened the window,
But for wonder scarce could speak,
As a bird flew in with a jeweled ring
Held flashing in his beak.
'T is the bird I trained, said Dorby,
And that is the precious ring,
That once I saw on the royal hand
Of our good and gracious King.
And if birds, as our lesson tells us,
Once came with food to men,
Who knows, said the foolish peasant,
But they might be sent again!
So he hopefully went with the morning,
And knocked at the palace gate,
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And gave to the King the jewel
They had searched for long and late.
And when he had heard the story
Which the peasant had to tell;
He gave him a fruitful garden,
And a home wherein to dwell.
And Dorby wrote o'er the doorway
These words that all might see:
“Thou hast called on the Lord in trouble,
And He hath delivered thee!”

EDGAR'S WIFE.

I know that Edgar's kind and good,
And I know my home is fine,
If I only could live in it, mother,
And only could make it mine.
You need not look at me and smile,
In such a strange, sad way;
I am not out of my head at all,
And I know just what I say.
I know that Edgar freely gives
Whate'er he thinks will please;
But it 's what we love that brings us good,
And my heart is not in these.
Oh, I wish I could stand where the maples
Drop their shadows, cool and dim;
Or lie in the sweet red clover,
Where I walked, but not with him!
Nay, you need not mind me, mother,
I love him—or at the worst,
I try to shut the past from my heart;
But you know he was not the first!
And I strive to make him feel my life
Is his, and here, as I ought;
But he never can come into the world
That I live in, in my thought.
For whether I wake, or whether I sleep,
It is always just the same;
I am far away to the time that was,
Or the time that never came.
Sometimes I walk in the paradise,
That, alas! was not to be;
Sometimes I sit the whole night long
A child on my father's knee;
And when my sweet sad fancies fun
Unheeded as they list,
They go and search about to find
The things my life has missed.
Aye! this love is a tyrant always,
And whether for evil or good,
Neither comes nor goes for our bidding,—
But I 've done the best I could.
And Edgar 's a worthy man I know,
And I know my house is fine;
But I never shall live in it, mother,
And I never shall make it mine!

THE FICKLE DAY.

Last night, when the sweet young moon shone clear
In her hall of starry splendor,
I said what a maiden loves to hear,
To a maiden true and tender.
She promised to walk with me at noon,
In the meadow red with clover;
And I set her words to a pleasant tune,
And sang them over and over.
So awake in the early dawn I lay,
And heard the stir and humming
The glad earth makes when her orchestra
Of a thousand birds is coming.
I saw the waning lights in the skies
Blown out by the breath of morning;
And the morn grow pale as a maid who dies,
When her loving wins but scorning.
And I said, the day will never rise;
On her cloudy couch she lingers,
Still pressing the lids of her sweet blue eyes
Close shut with her rosy fingers.
But she rose at last, and stood arrayed
Like a queen for a royal crowning,
And I thought her look was never made
For changing or for frowning.
But alas for the dreams that round us play!
For the plans of mortal making!
And alas for the false and fickle day
That looked so fair at waking!
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For suddenly on the world she frowned,
Till the birds grew still in their places,
And the blossoms turned their eyes on the ground
To hide their frightened faces.
And the light grew checkered where it lay,
Across the hill and meadow,
For she hid her sunny hair away
Under a net of shadow.
And close in the folds of a cloudy veil,
Her altered beauty keeping,
She breathed a low and lonesome wail,
And softly fell a-weeping.
And now, my dream of the time to be,
My beautiful dream is over;
For no maiden will walk at noon with me
In the meadow red with clover.
And within and without I feel and see
But woeful, weary weather;
Ah! wretched day; ah! wretched me—
We well may weep together!

THE MAID OF KIRCONNEL.

Fair Kirtle, hastening to the sea,
Through lands of sunniest green,
But for thy tender witchery
“Fair Helen of Kirconnel lea,”
A happier fate had seen.
And wood-bower sweet, whose vines displayed
A royal wreath of flowers;
Why did you lure the dreaming maid,
So oft beneath your haunted shade,
To pass the charmèd hours?
For hidden, like the feathery choir,
There from the noontide's glance,
She lit the heart's first vestal fire,
And fed its flame of soft desire,
With dreams of old romance.
Poor, frightened doe, that sought the shade
Of that sequestered place;
And led the tender, timid maid,
Blushing, surprised, and half afraid,
To meet the hunter's face.
Not thine the fault, but thine the deed,
Blind, harmless innocent;
When to that bosom, doomed to bleed,
With cruel, swift, unerring speed,
The fatal arrow went.
Why came no warning voice to save,
No cry upon the blast,
When Helen fair, and Fleming brave,
Sat on the dead Kirconnel's grave,
And spake, and kissed their last?
O Mary, gone in life's young bloom,
O “Mary of the lea,”
Couldst thou not leave one hour the tomb,
To save her from that hapless doom,
So soon to sleep by thee?
Vain, vain, to say what might have been,
Or strive with cruel Fate;
Evil the world hath entered in,
And sin is death, and death is sin,
And love must trust and wait.
For here the crown of lovers true
Still hides its flowers beneath—
The sharpest thorns that ever grew,
The thorns that pierce us through and through,
And make us bleed to death!

SAINT MACARIUS OF THE DESERT.

Good Saint Macarius, full of grace,
And happy as none but a saint can be,
Abode in his cell, in a desert place,
With only angels for company;
And fasting daily till vesper time,
And praying oft till the hour of prime;
He wept so freely for all the sin
That ever had stained his soul below,
That, though the hue of his guilt had been
As scarlet, it must have changed to snow.
The Tempter scarce could charm his sight
Who came transformed to an angel of light;
The demons that pursued his track
He sent to a fiercer torment back;
And he wearied, with fast and penance grim,
The fiends that were sent to weary him,
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Until at last it came about
That he vanquished the fiercest of Satan's brood,
And the powers of darkness, tired out,
Had left the anchoret unsubdued.
Yet I marvel what they could have been
The sins that he strove to wash away;
For he had fled from the haunts of men
In the pure, sweet dawn of his manhood's day.
But surely now they were all forgiven,
For alone in the desert, for sixty years,
He had eat of its scant herbs morn and even,
And black bread, moistened with bitter tears.
Yet so cunning and subtle is the mesh
For the souls of the unwary laid,
And so strong is the power of the world and flesh,
That the very elect have been betrayed.
And therefore even our holy saint,
When fast and penance and watch were done,
Made often bitter and loud complaint
Of the artful wiles of the Evil One.
For he found that none may flee from his ire,
Or find a refuge and safe retreat,
In the time when Satan doth desire
To have and to sift the soul like wheat.
Good Saint Macarius, having passed
The long, hot hours of the day in prayer,
Rose once an hungered, after a fast
That was long for even a saint to bear.
And looking without, where the shadows fell—
'T was a sight most rare in that lonely place—
Just at the door of his humble cell
He saw a stranger face to face,
Who greeted him in a tender tone,
That fell on his weary heart like balm,
As graciously from out his own
He dropped in the hermit's open palm
A cluster plucked from a fruitful vine,
Ripe and ruddy, and full of wine.
“Thanks,” said the saint, for his heart was glad,
“My blessing take for a righteous deed;
'T is the very gift I would have had
For one in his sore distress and need.”
Then, seizing a staff in his eager hand,
He hurried over the burning sand,
To a cell where a holy brother lay,
Wasting and dying day by day,
And gave, his dying thirst to slake,
The fruit 't were a sin for himself to take.
Alas! the fainting hermit said,
To the holy brother who watched his bed,
Short at the worst can be my stay
In this vile and wretched house of clay;
For my night is almost done below,
And at break of day I must rise and go,
Shall I yield at last the flesh to please,
And lose my soul for a moment's ease?
Nay, take this gift to my precious son,
Whose weary journey is scarce begun,
For the burden of penance and fast and prayer
Is a heavier thing for the young to bear.
Therefore his sin were not as mine,
Though he ate the pleasant fruit of the vine.
So, before another hour had gone,
The will of the dying man was done;
And the fair young monk, who had come to dwell
For the good of his soul in a desert-cell,
Had bound the sandals on his feet,
And drawn his hood about his head,
And, bearing the cluster ripe and sweet,
Was crossing the desert with cheerful tread.
For he said, 'T were well that an aged saint
Should break his fast with fruits like these:
But I in my vigor dare not taint
My soul with self-indulgencies.
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And the holy father whom I seek,
By praying and fasting oft and long,
I fear me makes the flesh too weak
To keep the spirit brave and strong.
At the day-break Saint Macarius rose
From his peaceful sleep with conscience clear.
And lo! the youngest monk of those
Who lived in a desert-cell drew near;
And, greeting his father in the Lord,
Passed reverently the open door.
And again the hermit had on his board
The fruit untouched as it was before.
Then Saint Macarius joyful raised
His thankful eyes and hands to heaven,
And cried aloud: “The saints be praised
That unto all my sons was given
Such strength that, tempted as they have been,
Not a single soul hath yielded to sin.”
And then, though he had not broken fast,
The lure was firmly put aside;
And in the future, as in the past,
A self-denying man to the last,
Good Saint Macarius lived and died.
And he never tasted the fruit of the vine,
Till he went to a righteous man's reward,
And took of the heavenly bread and wine
New in the kingdom of the Lord.

FAIR ELEANOR.

When the birds were mating and building
To the sound of a pleasant tune,
Fair Eleanor sat on the porch and spun
All the long bright afternoon.
She wound the flax on the distaff,
She spun it fine and strong;
She sung as it slipped through her hands, and this
Was the burden of her song:
“I sit here spinning, spinning,
And my heart beats joyfully,
Though my lover is riding away from me
To his home by the hills of the sea.”
When the shining skeins were finished,
And the loom its work had done,
Fair Eleanor brought her linen out
To spread on the grass in the sun.
She sprinkled it over with water,
She turned and bleached it white;
And still she sung, and the burden
Was gay, as her heart was light:
“O sun, keep shining, shining!
O web, bleach white for me!
For now my lover is riding back
From his home by the hills of the sea.”
When the sun, through the leaves of autumn,
Burned with a dull-red flame,
Fair Eleanor had made the robes
To wear when her lover came.
And she stood at the open clothes-press,
And the roses burned in her face,
As she strewed with roses and lavender
Her folded linen and lace;
And she murmured softly, softly:
“My bridegroom draws near to me,
And we shall ride back together
To his home by the hills of the sea.”
When the desolate clouds of winter
Shrouded the face of the sun,
Then the fair, fair Eleanor, wedded,
Was dressed in the robes she had spun.
But never again in music
Did her silent lips dispart,
Though her lover came from his home by the sea,
And clasped her to his heart;
Though he cried, as he kissed and kissed her,
Till his sobs through the house were heard—
Ah, she was too happy where she had gone,
I ween, to answer a word!

BREAKING THE ROADS.

About the cottage, cold and white,
The snow-drifts heap the ground;
Through its curtains closely drawn to-night
There scarcely steals a sound.
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The task is done that patient hands
Through all the day have plied;
And the flax-wheel, with its loosened bands,
Is idly set aside.
Above the hearth-fire's pleasant glare,
Sings now the streaming spout;
The housewife, at her evening care,
Is passing in and out.
And still as here and there she flits,
With cheerful, bustling sound,
Musing, her daughter silent sits,
With eyes upon the ground.
A maiden, womanly and true,
Sweet as the mountain-rose;
No fairer form than hers ere grew
Amid the winter snows.
A rosy mouth, and o'er her brow
Brown, smoothly-braided hair,
Surely the youth beside her now
Must covet flower so fair.
For bashfulness she dare not meet
His eyes that keep their place,
So steadfastly and long in sweet
Perusal of her face.
Herself is Lucy's only charm,
To make her prized or sought;
And Ralph hath but the goodly farm
Whereon his fathers wrought.
He, with his neighbors, toiling slow
To-day till sunset's gleam,
Breaking a road-track through the snow,
Has urged his patient team.
They came at morn from every home,
They have labored cheerily;
They have cut a way through the snowy foam.
As a good ship cuts the sea.
And when his tired friends were gone,
Their pleasant labors o'er,
Ralph stayed to make a path, alone,
To Lucy's cottage-door.
The thankful dame her friend must press
To share her hearth's warm blaze:
What could the daughter give him less
Than words of grateful praise?
And now the board has given its cheer,
The eve has nearly gone,
Yet by the hearth-fire bright and clear
The youth still lingers on.
The mother rouses from her nap,
Her task awhile she keeps;
At last, with knitting on her lap,
Tired nature calmly sleeps.
Then Lucy, bringing from the shelf
Apples that mock her cheeks,
Falls working busily herself,
And half in whisper speaks.
And Ralph, for very bashfulness,
Is held a moment mute;
Then drawing near, he takes in his
The hand that pares the fruit.
Then Lucy strives to draw away
Her hand, yet kindly too,
And half in his she lets it stay,—
She knows not what to do.
“Darling,” he cries, with flushing cheek,
“Forego awhile your task;
Lift up your downcast eyes and speak,
'T is but a word I ask!”
He sees the color rise and wane
Upon the maiden's face;
Then with a kiss he sets again
The red rose in its place.
The mother wakes in strange surprise,
And wondering looks about,—
“How careless, Lucy dear,” she cries;
“You 've let the fire go out!”
Then Lucy turned her face away,
She did not even speak;
But she looked as if the live coals lay
A-burning in her cheek.
“Ralph,” said the dame, “you ne'er before
Played such a double part:
Have you made the way both to my door
And to my daughter's heart?”
“I 've tried my best,” cried happy Ralph,
“And if she 'll be my wife,
I 'll make a pathway smooth and safe
For my darling all her life!”
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All winter from his home to that
Where Lucy lived content,
Along a path made hard and straight,
Her lover came and went.
And when spring smiled in all her bowers,
And birds sang far and wide,
He trod a pathway through the flowers,
And led her home a bride!

THE CHRISTMAS SHEAF.

“Now, good-wife, bring your precious hoard,”
The Norland farmer cried;
“And heap the hearth, and heap the board,
For the blessed Christmas-tide.
“And bid the children fetch,” he said,
“The last ripe sheaf of wheat,
And set it on the roof o'erhead,
That the birds may come and eat.
“And this we do for his dear sake,
The Master kind and good,
Who, of the loaves He blest and brake,
Fed all the multitude.”
Then Fredrica, and Franz, and Paul,
When they heard their father's words,
Put up the sheaf, and one and all
Seemed merry as the birds.
Till suddenly the maiden sighed,
The boys were hushed in fear,
As, covering all her face, she cried,
“If Hansei were but here!”
And when, at dark, about the hearth
They gathered still and slow,
You heard no more the childish mirth
So loud an hour ago.
And on their tender cheeks the tears
Shone in the flickering light;
For they were four in other years
Who are but three to-night.
And tears are in the mother's tone;
As she speaks, she trembles, too:
“Come, children, come, for the supper's done,
And your father waits for you.”
Then Fredrica, and Franz, and Paul,
Stood each beside his chair;
The boys were comely lads, and tall,
The girl was good and fair.
The father's hand was raised to crave
A grace before the meat,
When the daughter spake; her words were brave
But her voice was low and sweet:
“Dear father, should we give the wheat
To all the birds of the air?
Shall we let the kite and the raven eat
Such choice and dainty fare?
“For if to-morrow from our store
We drive them not away,
The good little birds will get no more
Than the evil birds of prey.”
“Nay, nay, my child,” he gravely said,
“You have spoken to your shame,
For the good, good Father overhead,
“Feeds all the birds the same.
“He hears the ravens when they cry,
He keeps the fowls of the air;
And a single sparrow cannot lie
On the ground without his care.”
“Yea, father, yea; and tell me this,”—
Her words came fast and wild,—
“Are not a thousand sparrows less
To Him than a single child?
“Even though it sinned and strayed from home?”
The father groaned in pain
As she cried, “oh, let our Hansei come
And live with us again!
“I know he did what was not right”—
Sadly he shook his head;
“If he knew I longed for him to-night,
He would not come,” he said.
“He went from me in wrath and pride;
God! shield him tenderly!
For I hear the wild wind cry outside,
Like a soul in agony.”
“Nay, it is a soul!” Oh, eagerly
The maiden answered then;
“And, father, what if it should be he,
Come back to us again!”
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She stops—the portal open flies;
Her fear is turned to joy:
“Hansei!” the startled father cries;
And the mother sobs, “My boy!”
'T is a bowed and humbled man they greet,
With loving lips and eyes,
Who fain would kneel at his father's feet,
But he softly bids him rise;
And he says, “I bless thee, O mine own;
Yea, and thou shalt be blest!”
While the happy mother holds her son
Like a baby on her breast.
Their house and love again to share
The Prodigal has come!
And now there will be no empty chair,
Nor empty heart in their home.
And they think, as they see their joy and pride
Safe back in the sheltering fold,
Of the child that was born at Christmas-tide
In Bethlehem of old.
And all the hours glide swift away
With loving, hopeful words,
Till the Christmas sheaf at break of day
Is alive with happy birds!

LITTLE GOTTLIEB.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

Across the German Ocean,
In a country far from our own,
Once, a poor little boy, named Gottlieb,
Lived with his mother alone.
They dwelt in the part of a village
Where the houses were poor and small,
But the home of little Gottlieb,
Was the poorest one of all.
He was not large enough to work,
And his mother could do no more
(Though she scarcely laid her knitting down)
Than keep the wolf from the door.
She had to take their threadbare clothes,
And turn, and patch, and darn;
For never any woman yet
Grew rich by knitting yarn.
And oft at night, beside her chair,
Would Gottlieb sit, and plan
The wonderful things he would do for her,
When he grew to be a man.
One night she sat and knitted,
And Gottlieb sat and dreamed,
When a happy fancy all at once
Upon his vision beamed.
'T was only a week till Christmas,
And Gottlieb knew that then
The Christ-child, who was born that day,
Sent down good gifts to men.
But he said, “He will never find us,
Our home is so mean and small.
And we, who have most need of them,
Will get no gifts at all.”
When all at once, a happy light
Came into his eyes so blue,
And lighted up his face with smiles,
As he thought what he could do.
Next day when the postman's letters
Came from all over the land;
Came one for the Christ-child, written
In a child's poor trembling hand.
You may think he was sorely puzzled
What in the world to do;
So he went to the Burgomaster,
As the wisest man he knew.
And when they opened the letter,
They stood almost dismayed
That such a little child should dare
To ask the Lord for aid.
Then the Burgomaster stammered,
And scarce knew what to speak,
And hastily he brushed aside
A drop, like a tear, from his cheek.
Then up he spoke right gruffly,
And turned himself about:
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This must be a very foolish boy,
And a small one, too, no doubt.”
But when six rosy children
That night about him pressed,
Poor, trusting little Gottlieb
Stood near him, with the rest.
And he heard his simple, touching prayer,
Through all their noisy play;
Though he tried his very best to put
The thought of him away.
A wise and learned man was he,
Men called him good and just;
But his wisdom seemed like foolishness,
By that weak child's simple trust.
Now when the morn of Christmas came
And the long, long week was done,
Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep,
Rose up before the sun,
And hastened to his mother,
But he scarce might speak for fear,
When he saw her wondering look, and saw
The Burgomaster near.
He was n't afraid of the Holy Babe,
Nor his mother, meek and mild;
But he felt as if so great a man
Had never been a child.
Amazed the poor child looked, to find
The hearth was piled with wood,
And the table, never full before,
Was heaped with dainty food.
Then half to hide from himself the truth
The Burgomaster said,
While the mother blessed him on her knees,
And Gottlieb shook for dread:
“Nay, give no thanks, my good dame,
To such as me for aid,
Be grateful to your little son,
And the Lord to whom he prayed!”
Then turning round to Gottlieb,
“Your written prayer, you see,
Come not to whom it was addressed,
It only came to me!
“'T was but a foolish thing you did,
As you must understand;
For though the gifts are yours, you know,
You have them from my hand.”
Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly,
Where he humbly stood apart,
“But the Christ-child sent them all the same,
He put the thought in your heart!”
 

[Note.—In Norway the last sheaf from the harvest-field is never threshed, but it is always reserved till Christmas Eve, when it is set up on the roof as a feast for the hungry birds.]

A MONKISH LEGEND.

Beautiful stories, by tongue and pen,
Are told of holy women and men,
Who have heard, entranced in some lonely cell,
The things not lawful for lip to tell;
And seen, when their souls were caught away,
What they might not say.
But one of the sweetest in tale or rhyme
Is told of a monk of the olden time,
Who read all day in his sacred nook
The words of the good Saint Austin's book,
Where he tells of the city of God, that best
Last place of rest.
Sighing, the holy father said,
As he shut the volume he had read:
“Methinks if heaven shall only be
A Sabbath long as eternity,
Its bliss will at last be a weary reign,
And its peace be pain.”
So he wandered, musing under his hood,
Far into the depths of a solemn wood;
Where a bird was singing, so soft and clear,
That he paused and listened with charmèd ear;
Listened, nor knew, while thus intent,
How the moments went.
But the music ceased, and the sweet spell broke,
And as if from a guilty dream he woke,
That holy man, and he cried aghast,
“Mea culpa! an hour has passed,
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And I have not counted my beads, nor prayed
To the saints for aid!”
Then, amazed he fled; but his horror grew,
For the wood was strange, and the pathway new;
Yet, with trembling step, he hurried on,
Till at last the open plain was won,
Where, grim and black, o'er the vale around,
The convent frowned.
“Holy Saint Austin!” cried the monk,
And down on the ground for terror sunk;
For lo! the convent, tower, and cell,
Sacred crucifix, blessèd bell,
Had passed away, and in their stead,
Was a ruin spread.
In that hour, while the rapture held him fast,
A century had come and passed;
And he rose an altered man, and went
His way, and knew what the vision meant;
For a mighty truth, till then unknown,
By that trance was shown.
And he saw how the saints, with their Lord, shall say.
A thousand years are but as a day;
Since bliss itself must grow from bliss,
And holiness from holiness;
And love, while eternity's ages move,
Cannot tire of love!

ARTHUR'S WIFE.

I'm getting better, Miriam, though it tires me yet to speak;
And the fever, clinging to me, keeps me spiritless and weak,
And leaves me with a headache always when it passes off;
But I 'm better, almost well at last, except this wretched cough!
I should have passed the livelong day alone here but for you;
For Arthur never comes till night, he has so much to do!
And so sometimes I lie and think, till my heart seems nigh to burst,
Of the hope that lit my future, when I I watched his coming first.
I wonder why it is that now he does not seem the same;
Perhaps my fancy is at fault, and he is not to blame;
It surely cannot be because he has me always near,
For I feared and felt it long before the time he brought me here.
Yet still, I said, his wife will charm each shadow from his brow,
What can I do to win his love, or prove my loving now?
So I waited, studying patiently his every look and thought;
But I fear that I shall never learn to please him as I ought.
I 've tried so many ways, to smooth his path where it was rough,
But I always either do too much, or fail to do enough;
And at times, as if it wearied him, he pushes off my arm—
The very things that used to please have somehow lost their charm.
Once, when I wore a pretty gown, a gown he use to praise,
I asked him, laughing, if I seemed the sweetheart of old days.
He did not know the dress, and said, he never could have told,
'T was not that unbecoming one, which made me look so old!
I cannot tell how anything I do may seems to him.
Sometimes he thinks me childish, and sometimes stiff and prim;
Yet you must not think I blame him, dear; I could not wrong him so—
He is very good to me, and I am happy, too, you know!
But I am often troublesome, and sick too much, I fear,
And sometimes let the children cry when he is home to hear.
Ah me! if I should leave them, with no other care than his!
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Yet he says his love is wiser than my foolish fondness is.
I think he 'd care about the babe. I called him Arthur, too—
Hoping to please him when I said, I named him, love, for you!
He never noticed any child of mine, except this one,
So the girls would only have to do as they have always done.
Give me my wrapper, Miriam. Help me a little, dear!
When Arthur comes home, vexed and tired, he must not find me here.
Why, I can even go down-stairs: I always make the tea.
He does not like that any one should wait on him but me.
He never sees me lying down when he is home, you know,
And I seldom tell him how I feel, he hates to hear it so;
Yet I 'm sure he grieves in secret at the thought that I may die,
Though he often laughs at me, and says, “You 're stronger now than I.”
Perhaps there are some men who love more than they ever say:
He does not show his feelings, but that may not be his way.
Why, how foolishly I 'm talking, when I know he 's good and kind!
But we women always ask too much; more than we ever find.
My slippers, Miriam! No, not those; bring me the easy pair.
I surely heard the door below; I hear him on the stair!
There comes the old, sharp pain again, that almost makes me frown;
And it seems to me I always cough when I try to keep it down.
Ah, Arthur! take this chair of mine; I feel so well and strong;
Besides, I am getting tired of it—I 've sat here all day long.
Poor dear! you work so hard for me, and I 'm so useless, too!
A trouble to myself, and, worse, a trouble now to you.

GRACIE.

Gracie rises with a light
In her clear face like the sun,
Like the regal, crownèd sun
That at morning meets her sight:
Mirthful, merry little one,
Happy, hopeful little one;
What has made her day so bright?
Who her sweet thoughts shall divine,
As she draweth water up,
Water from the well-spring up?
What hath made the draught so fine,
That she drinketh of the cup,
Of the dewy, dripping cup,
As if tasting royal wine?
Tripping up and down the stair,
Hers are pleasant tasks to-day,
Hers are easy tasks to-day;
Done without a thought of care,
Something makes her work but play,
All her work delightful play,
And the time a holiday.
And her lips make melody,
Like a silver-ringing rill,
Like a laughing, leaping rill:
Then she breaks off suddenly;
But her heart seems singing still,
Beating out its music still,
Though it beateth silently.
And I wonder what she thinks;
Only to herself she speaks,
Very low and soft she speaks.
As she plants the scarlet pinks,
Something plants them in her cheeks,
Sets them blushing in her cheeks.
How I wonder what she thinks!
To a bruisèd vine she goes;
Tenderly she does her part,
Carefully she does her part,
As if, while she bound the rose,
She were binding up a heart,
Binding up a broken heart.
Doth she think but of the rose?
Bringing odorous leaf and flower
To her bird she comes elate,
Comes as one, with step elate,
Cometh in a happy hour
To a true and tender mate.
Doth she think of such a mate?
Is she trimming cage and bower?
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How she loves the flower she brings!
See her press her lips to this,
Press her rosy mouth to this,
In a kiss that clings and clings.
Hath the maiden learned that kiss,
Learned that lingering, loving kiss,
From such cold insensate things?
What has changed our pretty one?
A new light is in her eyes,
In her downcast, drooping eyes,
As she walks beneath the moon.
What has waked those piteous sighs,
Waked her touching, tender sighs?
Has love found her out so soon?
Even her mother wonderingly
Saith: “How strange our darling seems,
How unlike herself she seems.”
And I answer: “Oft we see
Women living as in dreams,
When love comes into their dreams.
What if hers such dreaming be?”
But she says, undoubtingly:
“Whatsoever else it mean,
This it surely cannot mean.
Gracie is a babe to me,
Just a child of scarce sixteen,
And it seems but yestere'en
That she sat upon my knee.”
Ah wise mother! if you proved
Lover never crossed her way,
I would think the self-same way.
Ever since the world has moved,
Babes seemed women in a day;
And, alas! and welladay!
Men have wooed and maidens loved!

POOR MARGARET.

We always called her “poor Margaret,”
And spoke about her in mournful phrase;
And so she comes to my memory yet
As she seemed to me in my childish days.
For in that which changing, waxeth old,
In things which perish, we saw her poor,
But we never saw the wealth untold,
She kept where treasures alone endure.
We saw her wrinkled, and pale, and thin.
And bowed with toil, but we could not see
That her patient spirit grew straight within,
In the power of its upright purity.
Over and over, every day,
Bleaching her linen in sun and rain,
We saw her turn it until it lay
As white on the grass as the snow had lain;
But we could not see how her Father's smile,
Shining over her spirit there,
Was whitening for her all the while
The spotless raiment his people wear.
She crimped and folded, smooth and nice,
All our sister's clothes, when she came to wed,—
(Alas! that she only wore them twice,
Once when living, and once when dead!)
And we said, she can have no wedding-day;
Speaking sorrowfully, under our breath;
While her thoughts were all where they give away
No brides to lovers, and none to death.
Poor Margaret! she sleeps now under the sod,
And the ills of her mortal life are past;
But heir with her Saviour, and heir of God,
She is rich in her Father's House at last.

LADY MARJORY.

The Lady Marjory lay on her bed,
Though the clock had struck the hour of noon,
And her cheek on the pillow burned as red
As the bleeding heart of a rose in June;
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Like the shimmer and gleam of a golden mist
Shone her yellow hair in the chamber dim;
And a fairer hand was never kissed
Than hers, with its fingers white and slim.
She spake to her women, suddenly,—
“I have lain here long enough,” she said;
“Lain here a year, by night and day,
And I hate the pillow, and hate the bed.
So carry me where I used to sit,
I am not much for your arms to hold:
Strange phantoms now through my fancy flit,
And my head is hot and my feet are cold!”
They sat her up once more in her chair,
And Alice, behind her, grew pale with dread
As she combed and combed her lady's hair,
For the fever never left her head.
And before her, Rose on a humble seat
Sat, but her young face wore no smile,
As she held in her lap her mistress' feet
And chafed them tenderly all the while.
“Once I saw,” said the lady, “a saintly nun,
Who turned from the world and its pleasures vain;—
When they clipped her tresses, one by one,
How it must have eased her aching brain!
If it ached and burned as mine does now,
And they cooled it thus, it was worth the price;—
Good Alice, lay your hand on my brow,
For my head is fire and my feet are ice!”
So the patient Alice stood in her place
For hours behind her mistress' chair,
Bathing her fevered brow and face,
Parting and combing her golden hair:
And Rose, whose cheek belied her name,
Sitting before her, awed and still,
Kept at her hopeless task the same
Till she felt, through all her frame, the chill.
“How my thoughts,” the Lady Marjory said,
“Go slipping into the past once more;
As the beads we are stringing slide down a thread,
When we drop the end along the floor:
Only a moment past, they slid
Thus into the old time, dim and sweet;
I was where the honeysuckles hid
My head and the daisies hid my feet.
I heard my Philip's step again,
I felt the thrill of his kiss on my brow;
Ah! my cheek was not so crimson then,
Nor my feet in the daisies cold as now!
“Dizzily still my senses swim,
I am far away in a fairy land;
To the night when first I danced with him,
And felt his look, as he touched my hand;
Then my cheeks were bright with the flush and glow
Of the joy that made the hours so fleet;
And my feet were rosy with warmth I know,
As time to the music they lightly beat.
“'T is strange how the things I remember, seem
Blended together, and nothing plain;
A dream is like truth, and truth like a dream,
With this terrible fever in my brain.
But of all the visions that ever I had,
There is one returns to plague me most;
If it were not false it would drive me mad,
Haunting me thus, like an evil ghost.
“It came to me first a year ago,
Though I never have told a soul before,
But I dreamed, in the dead of the night, you know,
That under the vines beside the door,
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I watched for a step I did not hear,
Stayed for a kiss I did not feel;
But I heard a something hiss in my ear
Words that I shudder still to reveal.
I made no sound, and I gave no start,
But I stood as the dead on the sea-floor stand,
While the demon's words fell slow on my heart
As burning drops from a torturer's hand.
“‘Your Philip stays,’ it said, ‘to-night,
Where dark eyes hold him with magic spell;
Eyes from the stars that caught their light,
Not from some pretty blue flower's bell!
With raven tresses he waits to play,
They have bound him fast as a bird in a snare,
Did you think to hold him more than a day
In the feeble mesh of your yellow hair?
“‘Flowers or pearls in your tresses twist,
As your fancy suits you, smile or sigh;
Or give your dainty hand to be kissed
By other lips, and he will not die:
Hide your eyes in the veil of a nun,
Weep till the rose in your cheek is dim;
Or turn to any beneath the sun,
Henceforth it is all the same to him!’
“This was before I took my bed;—
Do you think a dream could make me ill,
Could put a fever in my head,
And touch my feet with an icy chill?
Yet I 've hardly been myself I know
At times since then, for before my eyes
The wildest visions come and go,
Full of all wicked and cruel lies.
“Once the peal of marriage-bells, without,
Fell, or seemed to fall on my ear;
And I thought you went, and softly shut
The window, so that I might not hear;
That you turned from my eager look away,
And sadly bent your eyes on the ground,
As if you said, 'tis his wedding-day,
And her heart will break if she hears the sound.
“And dreaming once, I dreamed I woke,
And heard you whisper, close at hand,
Men said, Sir Philip's heart was broke,
Since he gave himself for his wife's broad land;
That he smiled on none, but frowned instead,
As he stalked through his halls, like a ghost forlorn;
And the nurse who had held him, a baby, said,
He had better have died in the day he was born!”
So, till the low sun, fading, cast
Across her chamber his dying beams,
The Lady Marjory lived in the past.
Telling her women of all her dreams.
Then she changed;—“I am almost well,” she said,
“I feel so strangly free from pain;
Oh, if only the fever would leave my head,
And if only my feet were warm again!
And something whispers me, clear and low,
I shall soon be done with lying there,
So to-morrow, when I am better, you know,
You must come, good Alice, and dress my hair.
“We will give Sir Philip a glad surprise,
He will come, I know, at morn or night;
And I want the help of your hands and eyes
To dress me daintily all in white;
Bring snowy lilies for my hair;—
And, Rose, when all the rest is done,
Take from my satin slippers the pair
That are softest and whitest, and put them on.
But take me to bed now, where in the past
You have placed me many a time and oft;
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I am so tired, I think at last
I shall sleep, if the pillow is cool and soft.”
So the patient Alice took her head,
And the sweet Rose took her mistress' feet,
And they laid her tenderly on the bed,
And smoothed the pillow, and smoothed the sheet.
Then she wearily closed her eyes, they say,
On this world, with all its sorrow and sin;
And her head and her heart at the break of day,
Were as cold as ever her feet had been!

THE OLD MAN'S DARLING.

So I'm “crazy,” in loving a man of three-score;
Why, I never had come to my senses before,
But I 'm doubtful of yours, if your 're thinking to prove
My insanity, just by the fact of my love.
You would like to know what are his wonderful wiles?
Only delicate praises, and flattering smiles!
'T is no spell of enchantment, no magical art,
But the way he says “darling,” that goes to my heart.
Yes, he 's “sixty,” I cannot dispute with you there,
But you 'd make him a hundred, I think, if you dare;
And I 'm glad all his folly of first love is past,
Since I 'm sure, of the two, it is best to be last.
“His hair is as white as the snow-drift,” you say;
Then I never shall see it change slowly to gray;
But I almost could wish, for his dear sake alone,
That my tresses were nearer the hue of his own.
“He can't see;” then I 'll help him to see and to hear,
If it 's needful, you know, I can sit very near;
And he 's young enough yet to interpret the tone
Of a heart that is beating up close to his own.
I “must aid him;” ah! that is my pleasure and pride,
I should love him for this if for nothing beside;
And though I 've more reasons than I can recall,
Yet the one that “he needs me” is strongest of all.
So, if I 'm insane, you will own, I am sure,
That the case is so hopeless it 's past any cure;
And, besides, it is acting no very wise part,
To be treating the head for disease of the heart.
And if anything could make a woman believe
That no dream can delude, and no fancy deceive;
That she never knew lover's enchantment before,
It 's being the darling of one of three-score!

A TENT SCENE.

Our generals sat in their tent one night,
On the Mississippi's banks,
Where Vicksburg sullenly still held out
Against the assaulting ranks.
They could hear the firing as they talked,
Long after set of sun;
And the blended noise of a thousand guns
In the distance seemed as one.
All at once Sherman started to his feet,
And listened to the roar,
His practiced ear had caught a sound,
That he had not heard before.
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“They have mounted another gun on the walls;
'T is new,” he said, “I know;
I can tell the voice of a gun, as a man
Can tell the voice of his foe!
“What! not a soul of you hears but me?
No matter, I am right;
Bring me my horse! I must silence this
Before I sleep to-night!”
He was gone; and they listened to the ring
Of hoofs on the distant track;
Then talked and wondered for a while,—
In an hour he was back.
“Well, General! what is the news?” they cried,
As he entered flush and worn;
“We have picked their gunners off, and the gun
Will be dislodged at morn!”

THE LADY JAQUELINE.

“False and fickle, or fair and sweet,
I care not for the rest,
The lover that knelt last night at my feet
Was the bravest and the best.
Let them perish all, for their power has waned,
And their glory waxèd dim;
They were well enough while they lived and reigned,
But never was one like him!
And never one from the past would I bring
Again, and call him mine:—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.
“In the old, old days, when life was new,
And the world upon me smiled,
A pretty, dainty lover I had,
Whom I loved with the heart of a child.
When the buried sun of yesterday
Comes back from the shadows dim,
Then may his love return to me,
And the love I had for him!
But since to-day hath a better thing
To give, I 'll ne'er repine;—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.
“And yet it almost makes me weep,
Aye! weep, and cry, alas!
When I think of one who lies asleep
Down under the quiet grass.
For he loved me well, and I loved again,
And low in homage bent,
And prayed for his long and prosperous reign,
In our realm of sweet content.
But not to the dead may the living cling,
Nor kneel at an empty shrine;—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.
“Once, caught by the sheen of stars and lace,
I bowed for a single day,
To a poor pretender, mean and base,
Unfit for place or sway.
That must have been the work of a spell,
For the foolish glamour fled,
As the sceptre from his weak hand fell,
And the crown from his feeble head;
But homage true at last I bring
To this rightful lord of mine,—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.
“By the hand of one I held most dear,
And called my liege, my own!
I was set aside in a single year,
And a new queen shares his throne.
To him who is false, and him who is wed,
Shall I give my fealty?
Nay, the dead one is not half so dead
As the false one is to me!
My faith to the faithful now I bring,
The faithless I resign;—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.
“Yea, all my lovers and kings that were
Are dead, and hid away,
In the past, as in a sepulchre,
Shut up till the judgment day.
False or fickle, or weak or wed,
They are all alike to me;
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And mine eyes no more can be misled,—
They have looked on royalty!
Then bring me wine, and garlands bring
For my king of the right divine;—
The King is dead, long live the King!”
Said the Lady Jaqueline.

THE WIFE'S CHRISTMAS.

How can you speak to me so, Charlie!
It is n't kind, nor right;
You would n't have talked a year ago,
As you have done to-night.
You are sorry to see me sit and cry,
Like a baby vexed, you say;
When you did n't know I wanted a gift,
Nor think about the day!
But I 'm not like a baby, Charlie,
Crying for something fine;
Only a loving woman pained,
Could shed such tears as mine.
For every Christmas time till now—
And that is why I grieve—
It was you that wanted to give, Charlie,
More than I to receive.
And all I ever had from you
I have carefully laid aside;
From the first June rose you pulled for me,
To the veil I wore as a bride.
And I would n't have cared to-night, Charlie,
How poor the gift or small;
If you only had brought me something to show
That you thought of me at all.
The merest trifle of any kind,
That I could keep or wear;
A flimsy bit of lace for my neck,
Or a ribbon for my hair.
Some pretty story of lovers true,
Or a book of pleasant rhyme;
A flower, or a holly branch, to mark
The blessèd Christmas time.
But to be forgotten, Charlie!
'T is that that brings the tear;
And just to think, that I have n't been
Your wife but a single year!

COMING ROUND.

'T is all right, as I knew it would be by and by;
We have kissed and made up again, Archie and I;
And that quarrel, or nonsense, whatever you will,
I think makes us love more devotedly still.
The trouble was all upon my side, you know;
I 'm exacting sometimes, rather foolishly so;
And let any one tell me the veriest lie
About Archie, I 'm sure to get angry and cry.
Things will go on between us again just the same,—
For as he explains matters he was n't to blame;
But 't is useless to tell you; I can't make you see
How it was, quite as plainly as he has made me.
You thought “I would make him come round when we met!”
You thought “there were slights I could never forget!”
Oh you did! let me tell you, my dear, to your face,
That your thinking these things does n't alter the case!
You “can tell what I said?” I don't wish you to tell!
You know what a temper I have, very well;
That I 'm sometimes unjust to my friends who are best;
But you 've turned against Archie the same as the rest!
“Why has n't he written? what kept him so still?”—
His silence was sorely against his own will;
He has faults, that I own; but he, he would n't deceive;
He was ill, or was busy,—was both, I believe!
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Did he flirt with that lady? I s'pose I should say,
Why, yes,—when she threw herself right in the way;
He was led off, was foolish, but that is the worst,—
And she was to blame for it all, from the first.
And he 's so glad to come back again, and to find
A woman once more with a heart and a mind;
For though others may please and amuse for an hour,
I hold all his future—his life—in my power!
And now, if things don't go persistently wrong,
Our destinies cannot be parted for long:
For he said he would give me his fortune and name,—
Not those words, but he told me what meant just the same.
So what could I do, after all, at the last,
But just ask him to pardon my doubts in the past;
For though he had been wrong, I should still, all the same,
Rather take it myself than let him bear the blame.
And, poor fellow! he felt so bad, I could not bear
To drive him by cruelty quite to despair;
And so, to confess the whole truth, when I found
He was willing to do so himself, I came round!

THE LAMP ON THE PRAIRIE.

The grass lies flat beneath the wind
That is loosed in its angry might,
Where a man is wandering, faint and blind,
On the prairie, lost at night.
No soft, sweet light of moon or star.
No sound but the tempest's tramp;
When suddenly he sees afar
The flame of a friendly lamp!
And hope revives his failing strength,
He struggles on, succeeds,—
He nears a humble roof at length,
And loud for its shelter pleads.
And a voice replies, “Whoever you be
That knock so loud at my door,
Come in, come in! and bide with me
Till this dreadful storm is o'er.
“And no wilder, fiercer time in March
Have I seen since I was born;
If a wolf for shelter sought my porch
To-night, he might lie till morn.”
As he enters, there meets the stranger's gaze
One bowed by many a year,—
A woman, alone by the hearth's bright blaze,
Tending her lamp anear.
“Right glad will I come,” he said, “for the sweep
Of the wind is keen and strong;
But tell me, good neighbor, why you keep
Your fire ablaze so long?
“You dwell so far from the beaten way
It might burn for many a night;
And only belated men, astray,
Would ever see the light.”
“Aye, aye, 't is true as you have said,
But few this way have crossed;
But why should not fires be lit and fed
For the sake of men who are lost?
“There are women enough to smile when they come,
Enough to watch and pray
For those who never were lost from home,
And never were out of the way.
“And hard it were if there were not some
To love and welcome back
The poor misguided souls who have gone
Aside from the beaten track.
“And if a clear and steady light
In my home had always shone,
My own good boy had sat to-night
By the hearth, where I sit alone.
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“But alas! there was no faintest spark
The night when he should have come;
And what had he, when the pane was dark,
To guide his footsteps home?
“But since, each night that comes and goes,
My beacon fires I burn;
For no one knows but he lives, nor knows
The time when he may return!”
“And a lonesome life you must have had,
Good neighbor, but tell me, pray,
How old when he went was your little lad?
And how long has he been away?”
“'T is thirty years, by my reckoning,
Since he sat here last with me;
And he was but twenty in the spring,—
He was only a boy, you see!
“And though never yet has my fire been low,
Nor my lamp in the window dim,
It seems not long to be waiting so,
Nor much to do for him!
“And if mine eyes may see the lad
But in death, 't is enough of joy;
What mother on earth would not be glad
To wait for such a boy!
“You think 't is long to watch at home,
Talking with fear and doubt!
But long is the time that a son may roam
Ere he tire his mother out!
“And if you had seen my good boy go,
As I saw him go from home,
With a promise to come at night, you would know
That, some good night, he would come.”
“But suppose he perished where never pass
E'en the feet of the hunter bold,
His bones might bleach in the prairie grass
Unseen till the world is old!”
“Aye, he might have died: you answer well
And truly, friend, he might;
And this good old earth on which we dwell
Might come to an end to-night!
“But I know that here in its place, instead,
It will firm and fast remain;
And I know that my son, alive or dead,
Will return to me again!
“So your idle fancies have no power
To move me or appall;
He is likelier now to come in an hour
Than never to come at all!
“And he shall find me watching yet,
Return whenever he may;
My house has been in order set
For his coming many a day.
“You were rightly shamed if his young feet crossed
That threshold stone to-night,
For your foolish words, that he might be lost,
And his bones be hid from sight!
“And oh, if I heard his light step fall,
If I saw him at night or morn
Far off, I should know my son from all
The sons that ever were born.
“And, hark! there is something strange about,
For my dull old blood is stirred:
That was n't the feet of the storm without,
Nor the voice of the storm I heard!
“It was but the wind! nay, friend, be still,
Do you think that the night wind's breath
Through my very soul could send a thrill
Like the blast of the angel, Death?
“'T is my boy! he is coming home, he is near
Or I could not hear him pass;
For his step is as light as the step of the deer
On the velvet prairie grass.
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“How the tempest roars! how my cabin rocks!
Yet I hear him through the din;
Lo! he stands without the door—he knocks—
I must rise and let him in!”
She rose, she stood erect, serene;
She swiftly crossed the floor;
And the hand of the wind, or a hand unseen,
Threw open wide the door.
Through the portal rushed the cruel blast,
With a wail on its awful swell;
As she cried, “My boy, you have come at last!”
And prone o'er the threshold fell.
And the stranger heard no other sound,
And saw no form appear;
But whoever came at the midnight found
Her lamp was burning clear!
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