 | Verses of a life time |  |
3
THE BETROTHED.
Scene—A Southern Plantation—Noon.MOTHER.
Why linger near me, Emma, with that cheek
Which colors up in flushings like the sky
Lit by the sinking sun? Why from thine hand
Falls the small needle, as e'en that were weight
Too large? What mean these broken words and sighs,
Now passionate, then sinking down so low
That I must bend mine ear to catch the tone?
Hark, is that Edgar's step?
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O, mother, dear—
MOTHER.
My child, my simple child, it needs not words
To tell me now—indeed, I've known it long.
Think'st thou, that I could see the lily's leaves
Floating like living things upon the wave,
And guess not that the tide did move them thus?
Think'st thou that when the rose's bloom is stirr'd,
I know not the breeze, with waving breath,
Is sweeping o'er its rich and blushing leaves?
Or when the wind-harp wakes with thrilling tones,
I know not the same breeze, kissing its strings,
Doth call its murmurs? Just as plain to me,
Is it, that love, my child, hath touch'd thy soul!
Nay, start not, Emma, 't is no sin to love.—
But come, and lay thy head upon my breast,
And tell me all. I will not seek thine eyes,
Nor pierce their sable fringe, but clasp thy hand,
Thy fair, soft hand, whose tender pressure shall
Speak half thy tale.
EMMA.
My gentle mother, how
Can I for any other love neglect
Thy love! Nor did I, nor did Edgar thus;
And when this morn he urg'd his eager suit,
Thy name was blent in fondness with my own.
Can I for any other love neglect
5
And when this morn he urg'd his eager suit,
Thy name was blent in fondness with my own.
Rememberest thou, O yes, thou never canst
Forget the day, when, but a thoughtless girl,
With springing step and floating hair, I sought
The river bank, whereon my brothers sat,
Throwing the line to lure their watery prey;
Eager to see their prisoner caught, I lean'd
On a young sapling with unconscious weight,
And fell—when Edgar saw—he sprang—impetuous,
Leap'd to the wave, and with sustaining strength
Upbore me till assistance came. How quick
Is thought! Though reeling, dizzy, just upon
The brink of dark futurity, this hope
Come lighting like a torch my youthful heart,
Edgar will be my friend! I knew not love,
Or then, perchance, I might have said, my love!
Forget the day, when, but a thoughtless girl,
With springing step and floating hair, I sought
The river bank, whereon my brothers sat,
Throwing the line to lure their watery prey;
Eager to see their prisoner caught, I lean'd
On a young sapling with unconscious weight,
And fell—when Edgar saw—he sprang—impetuous,
Leap'd to the wave, and with sustaining strength
Upbore me till assistance came. How quick
Is thought! Though reeling, dizzy, just upon
The brink of dark futurity, this hope
Come lighting like a torch my youthful heart,
Edgar will be my friend! I knew not love,
Or then, perchance, I might have said, my love!
Ere long he left us for more classic bowers;
But tidings often came of one, who stood
Before his classmates with a laurell'd brow,
Winning with graceful ease the frequent prize.
Nor this alone; I heard of generous deeds,
Where the kind heart outshone the sparkling mind,
As yon white blossoms grace the laurel tree.
But tidings often came of one, who stood
Before his classmates with a laurell'd brow,
Winning with graceful ease the frequent prize.
Nor this alone; I heard of generous deeds,
Where the kind heart outshone the sparkling mind,
As yon white blossoms grace the laurel tree.
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And tokens sometimes came rememberingly,
(Thou knowest them, mother, well)—a drawing once
Of a young girl just rescued from the waves,
With eyes seal'd up like blossoms in rude storms;
He had not sketch'd her young deliverer;
For modesty is nature in him, but
My vision fancied there the ardent boy,
His chestnut curls crush'd by the sweeping stream,
His panting chest, his opening lips, his eyes
Starting in fear, and doubt, and growing joy,
When I unfolded mine.—Sometimes a flower
Was sent, or leaf, gather'd perchance in some
Lone, musing hour; or color'd sea-shell, which,
In whispers to mine ear, told a soft tale
I whisper'd not again.
Time roll'd, and he,
That distant one, crown'd with collegiate fame,
Return'd. He sought me, mother, and this morn,
Where the clematis bower shuts out the sun,
And the fond birds pour forth their loving lays,
He ask'd me for my heart.—I answer'd not;
But, mother, it was his on that far morn,
When shuddering from the river's depth I woke
Within his arms.
(Thou knowest them, mother, well)—a drawing once
Of a young girl just rescued from the waves,
With eyes seal'd up like blossoms in rude storms;
He had not sketch'd her young deliverer;
For modesty is nature in him, but
My vision fancied there the ardent boy,
His chestnut curls crush'd by the sweeping stream,
His panting chest, his opening lips, his eyes
Starting in fear, and doubt, and growing joy,
When I unfolded mine.—Sometimes a flower
Was sent, or leaf, gather'd perchance in some
Lone, musing hour; or color'd sea-shell, which,
In whispers to mine ear, told a soft tale
I whisper'd not again.
Time roll'd, and he,
That distant one, crown'd with collegiate fame,
Return'd. He sought me, mother, and this morn,
Where the clematis bower shuts out the sun,
And the fond birds pour forth their loving lays,
He ask'd me for my heart.—I answer'd not;
But, mother, it was his on that far morn,
When shuddering from the river's depth I woke
Within his arms.
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Thanks, love, for this fond trust.
O, never should a daughter's thoughts find rest
On kinder pillow than a mother's heart.
But Edgar comes.—Look up and meet his smile.
O, never should a daughter's thoughts find rest
On kinder pillow than a mother's heart.
But Edgar comes.—Look up and meet his smile.
Yes, take her hand, and with it a young heart
Full of love's first devotion. 'T is a charge,
My son, most precious! When she errs, reprove,
Spare not deserv'd reproof; she has been train'd
In Christ's high school, and knows that she is frail,
And she can bear the probe when brought by love.
But of neglect beware! Cherish her well;
For should the breath of coldness fall on her,
Thou wouldst hear no complaint, but thou wouldst see
Her sink into the grave, as the green leaves
Shrivel and fade beneath autumnal winds.
Full of love's first devotion. 'T is a charge,
My son, most precious! When she errs, reprove,
Spare not deserv'd reproof; she has been train'd
In Christ's high school, and knows that she is frail,
And she can bear the probe when brought by love.
But of neglect beware! Cherish her well;
For should the breath of coldness fall on her,
Thou wouldst hear no complaint, but thou wouldst see
Her sink into the grave, as the green leaves
Shrivel and fade beneath autumnal winds.
It is a struggle hard to bear, my son,
When a fond mother's cherish'd flower is borne,
Gently transplanted, to a happy home;
But deeper far than death's the withering pang,
To see her sought a few short months of pride,
Her beauties cherish'd, and her odors priz'd,
And then thrown by as lightly as the weed,
The trampled weed along the traveller's path.
When a fond mother's cherish'd flower is borne,
Gently transplanted, to a happy home;
But deeper far than death's the withering pang,
To see her sought a few short months of pride,
Her beauties cherish'd, and her odors priz'd,
And then thrown by as lightly as the weed,
The trampled weed along the traveller's path.
8
And, O, bethink thee, Edgar, of her soul,
And lead her in the heavenly road to God.
In that great day, when mortal hearts are bare,
Motives and deeds before the Eternal throne,
Beware lest I, with earnest pleadings, sue
To thee for this sweet child! Bring her to me
A blessed spirit, wrapt in robes of grace,
And if there's gratitude in heavenly bowers,
O, thou shalt hear its full and gushing tones
Rise in thanksgiving from a mother's soul!
And lead her in the heavenly road to God.
In that great day, when mortal hearts are bare,
Motives and deeds before the Eternal throne,
Beware lest I, with earnest pleadings, sue
To thee for this sweet child! Bring her to me
A blessed spirit, wrapt in robes of grace,
And if there's gratitude in heavenly bowers,
O, thou shalt hear its full and gushing tones
Rise in thanksgiving from a mother's soul!
Charleston, S. C. 1835
| Verses of a life time | |