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176
HER JESSAMINE.
PART I.
There's the jessamine she loved so; ah, a curly child she set it
When this garden porch from which it trails so greenly, first was made;
Oh, her joy in its first summers, who that saw it can forget it,
How she wondered at its white sweet stars and shouted in its shade!
When this garden porch from which it trails so greenly, first was made;
Oh, her joy in its first summers, who that saw it can forget it,
How she wondered at its white sweet stars and shouted in its shade!
Oh, that jessamine—that trellised porch—I never look upon it
But up before me all her little days it seems to bring;
How, brown and bare, her little hopes still prattled blossoms on it,
Still looked for leaves in winter and still watched for buds in spring.
But up before me all her little days it seems to bring;
How, brown and bare, her little hopes still prattled blossoms on it,
Still looked for leaves in winter and still watched for buds in spring.
That jessamine—its every spray to her was a green sister,
For, sisterless, her all of unclaimed love on it was spent;
To her its faint sweet odours still were glad fond lips that kissed her,
Its murmurs, living tongues that whispered back the love she lent.
For, sisterless, her all of unclaimed love on it was spent;
To her its faint sweet odours still were glad fond lips that kissed her,
Its murmurs, living tongues that whispered back the love she lent.
That jessamine—oh, how she prized the pleasure of its training!
No hand but hers, its year's new shoots might to its trellis bind;
'Twas a sound to gladden any heart—her laugh to see it gaining,
May by May, still up the porch's height, along the roof to wind.
No hand but hers, its year's new shoots might to its trellis bind;
'Twas a sound to gladden any heart—her laugh to see it gaining,
May by May, still up the porch's height, along the roof to wind.
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We country folks have fancies, friend, and, to our simple seeming,
'Twas as though for it her fondness still so more than natural were,
That across our evening cottage talk, there'd often float a dreaming
Of a bond beyond the thought of man betwixt that flower and her.
'Twas as though for it her fondness still so more than natural were,
That across our evening cottage talk, there'd often float a dreaming
Of a bond beyond the thought of man betwixt that flower and her.
You smile; 'tis but a fancy; true; but so they lived together,
That ever with the thought of her, came memory of the flower,
And yet I doubt, so strongly still the charm is on us, whether
An eye here, without seeing her, looks on it to this hour.
That ever with the thought of her, came memory of the flower,
And yet I doubt, so strongly still the charm is on us, whether
An eye here, without seeing her, looks on it to this hour.
Ay, sights are 'neath that jessamine that your eyes are not seeing;
Each leaf, but a mere leaf to you, to us is a dear thought;
For us, forms move within its shade, to you that have no being,
And whispers wander to our ears, by yours from it uncaught.
Each leaf, but a mere leaf to you, to us is a dear thought;
For us, forms move within its shade, to you that have no being,
And whispers wander to our ears, by yours from it uncaught.
'Twas there, in that soft golden shade with which June's sunlights fill it,
That she with Edwin played and laughed through many a girlish day;
'Twas there, the girl no longer now, she heard the flushed air still it
To catch the yes that murmured her young heart to him away.
That she with Edwin played and laughed through many a girlish day;
'Twas there, the girl no longer now, she heard the flushed air still it
To catch the yes that murmured her young heart to him away.
And there, when our consent was won, how many a glad still hour,
How many a white night star above their lingering partings past,
While, sweeter than the sweetness far of every folded flower,
Through their low words, murmured up a love through all their years to last.
How many a white night star above their lingering partings past,
While, sweeter than the sweetness far of every folded flower,
Through their low words, murmured up a love through all their years to last.
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Her jessamine—her jessamine—a bride before the altar
Of our gray old ivied church she stood and yet 'twas with her there;
They who heard her low sweet murmurs there the holy service falter,
Saw a spray of its pure silver stars wreathed in her soft brown hair.
Of our gray old ivied church she stood and yet 'twas with her there;
They who heard her low sweet murmurs there the holy service falter,
Saw a spray of its pure silver stars wreathed in her soft brown hair.
Her jessamine — her jessamine — years come and go, estranging
Hands from hands and hearts from hearts, but still her love for it's the same;
Nay, even now a letter scarce can love for love be changing
Betwixt her new and old homes, but 'tis sweetened with its name.
Hands from hands and hearts from hearts, but still her love for it's the same;
Nay, even now a letter scarce can love for love be changing
Betwixt her new and old homes, but 'tis sweetened with its name.
PART II.
'Tis but a sprig of jessamine, yet, Ellen, more I treasure
That withered and discoloured spray, than things the most I prize;
'Tis not alone a memory of some young evening's pleasure,
A whisper of some sweet ball of my girlhood there that lies.
That withered and discoloured spray, than things the most I prize;
'Tis not alone a memory of some young evening's pleasure,
A whisper of some sweet ball of my girlhood there that lies.
Ah, Ellen, on those faded leaves your eyes are calmly falling,
As if no throng of troubled thoughts—no sights were of them born,
But, seen by me, those blossoms sere, the long-gone past recalling,
Are deep thoughts in the records of the heart's far history worn.
As if no throng of troubled thoughts—no sights were of them born,
But, seen by me, those blossoms sere, the long-gone past recalling,
Are deep thoughts in the records of the heart's far history worn.
I would that here, my own dear child, here with your mother only,
The page of life before us now, by your eyes should be read,
So shall that spray of jessamine, when I am gone and lonely
You walk the world, be as a voice of warning from the dead.
The page of life before us now, by your eyes should be read,
So shall that spray of jessamine, when I am gone and lonely
You walk the world, be as a voice of warning from the dead.
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O summers of my childhood! days so loved of fancy's dreaming!
O Mays that basked in sunshine hardly crossed of lightest shade!
How little to your simple thought, the coming years were seeming
For griefs unguessed and weeping and for care and trial made!
O Mays that basked in sunshine hardly crossed of lightest shade!
How little to your simple thought, the coming years were seeming
For griefs unguessed and weeping and for care and trial made!
O green home of my girlhood! low your leaves are rustling o'er me,
As in chequered shades and sunbursts 'neath your mossed old trees I lie,
While ever some sweet blossom slow comes wavering down before me,
Floating down from your old orchard boughs before my half-shut eye.
As in chequered shades and sunbursts 'neath your mossed old trees I lie,
While ever some sweet blossom slow comes wavering down before me,
Floating down from your old orchard boughs before my half-shut eye.
Your garden—it's before me; the old casements looking on it
Through the leafy gold-green sunlight of their thick o'ermantling vine;
Your gables quaint; your trellised porch; the jessamine upon it,
To watch and train whose sweet growth was a girlish love of mine;
Through the leafy gold-green sunlight of their thick o'ermantling vine;
Your gables quaint; your trellised porch; the jessamine upon it,
To watch and train whose sweet growth was a girlish love of mine;
Was a love that strangely gathered strength with every changing season,
That strangely grew to weave itself at last through every thought,
Till fancy seemed to know of bonds beyond the gaze of reason,
In tangling meshes of that strange sweet love, unstruggling, caught.
That strangely grew to weave itself at last through every thought,
Till fancy seemed to know of bonds beyond the gaze of reason,
In tangling meshes of that strange sweet love, unstruggling, caught.
Ah, I see myself as then I was, a laughing girl, lighthearted,
Tossing back a flood of golden curls from off my young blue eyes,
As with leap and shout and broken song, its tangled shoots I parted,
Spring's sweet gifts to my sweet jessamine that so I'd learned to prize.
Tossing back a flood of golden curls from off my young blue eyes,
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Spring's sweet gifts to my sweet jessamine that so I'd learned to prize.
Ah, I see myself as soon as I was, in lilied summers after,
Still a girl, but numbering other years—a knitter, while the sun
Poured a mellow slanting splendour through that odorous porch, and laughter,
Still your father's mocking mine, betrayed our days of love begun.
Still a girl, but numbering other years—a knitter, while the sun
Poured a mellow slanting splendour through that odorous porch, and laughter,
Still your father's mocking mine, betrayed our days of love begun.
O those old remembered evenings! all their stillness is around me,
All the odorous purple twilights of those shadowy nights of June,
When through that green porch's trailing sprays, whitestarred, the sweet hours
found me,
Found us, arm-enwreathed together, watching on the crescent moon.
All the odorous purple twilights of those shadowy nights of June,
When through that green porch's trailing sprays, whitestarred, the sweet hours
found me,
Found us, arm-enwreathed together, watching on the crescent moon.
But other—far, far other thoughts that withered spray is bringing,
Another face—another voice—a dance of those sweet years,
Ere yet, a bride, I left the home whose leafy memory's clinging
To all my thoughts—whose old sweet sounds are ever in my ears.
Another face—another voice—a dance of those sweet years,
Ere yet, a bride, I left the home whose leafy memory's clinging
To all my thoughts—whose old sweet sounds are ever in my ears.
How fair a young thing then I was! long—long has gone the beauty
That in those happy winters won from all, the ball-room's gaze;
Long—long—ah, long has changed the heart that found the paths of duty
Too narrow for its wayward steps, allured to folly's ways.
That in those happy winters won from all, the ball-room's gaze;
Long—long—ah, long has changed the heart that found the paths of duty
Too narrow for its wayward steps, allured to folly's ways.
How vain a young thing then I was! for triumphs only living;
Still restless if there reigned not in all eyes, my beauty's sway;
Still grudging unto brightest eyes a phrase of flattery's giving,
Each watching gaze another's from my sweetness smiled away.
Still restless if there reigned not in all eyes, my beauty's sway;
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Each watching gaze another's from my sweetness smiled away.
Ah, I hear again those murmured words amid that dance that fluttered
The pulses of a young heart as the music swelled and died,
That strove against the true thought of the many a vow she'd uttered
Of love for ever unto one—to one and none beside.
The pulses of a young heart as the music swelled and died,
That strove against the true thought of the many a vow she'd uttered
Of love for ever unto one—to one and none beside.
And is her partner, dance by dance, he who, than any other,
Has truest right to claim her hand, his own through all the ball,
Or smiles she, thoughtless of him, to the whisperings of another,
Another whom her purity should fitter shun than all?
Has truest right to claim her hand, his own through all the ball,
Or smiles she, thoughtless of him, to the whisperings of another,
Another whom her purity should fitter shun than all?
Has she not startled from his path? has she not fled his gazing,
That, a prophecy of evil, long has crossed her, day by day?
And dares she now the dance with him, her eyes, untrembling, raising
To looks from whose bold insult hers have dropped so oft away?
That, a prophecy of evil, long has crossed her, day by day?
And dares she now the dance with him, her eyes, untrembling, raising
To looks from whose bold insult hers have dropped so oft away?
Yes—he was bowed to—noble—of a brow and lip of beauty
That had fixed the eyes of woman, had he lacked the pride of birth,
Had he lacked the height of station to which reverence seemed a duty,
And ancestral wealth that stood him in the place of honest worth.
That had fixed the eyes of woman, had he lacked the pride of birth,
Had he lacked the height of station to which reverence seemed a duty,
And ancestral wealth that stood him in the place of honest worth.
And is the love of all her years, for his, a moment slighted?
The love that with her ripening life to fairest growth had grown,
The love so many a summer star had lingered to hear plighted,
Forgot for a false passion that were shame and sin alone?
The love that with her ripening life to fairest growth had grown,
The love so many a summer star had lingered to hear plighted,
Forgot for a false passion that were shame and sin alone?
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Ay, blush for her, my own pure child; blush for a maiden, daughter,
Who spurned not his base flatteries back with instant honest scorn:
Alas for youth's weak vanity! the triumph's pride had caught her,
A titled partner for the night from every rival borne.
Who spurned not his base flatteries back with instant honest scorn:
Alas for youth's weak vanity! the triumph's pride had caught her,
A titled partner for the night from every rival borne.
And still, as hour chased throbbing hour, sank doubt and scruple under
The insult of his homage that was never from her side,
Till her young ears grew sullied with his flatteries, without wonder
That she stooped to listen to them with a joy she scarce would hide.
The insult of his homage that was never from her side,
Till her young ears grew sullied with his flatteries, without wonder
That she stooped to listen to them with a joy she scarce would hide.
The dawn is gray, and in her home, before her glass, unwreathing
The spray of her own jessamine from out her hair, she stands;
“You'll come?” were they his parting words? why stills her startled breathing?
What sees she in the drooping wreath that trembles in her hands?
The spray of her own jessamine from out her hair, she stands;
“You'll come?” were they his parting words? why stills her startled breathing?
What sees she in the drooping wreath that trembles in her hands?
The past—the past is with her; with a rush of recollection
Throng before her all the pure hours those sweet stars have dreamed above,
All the story of her young heart, dawning into glad affection,
All my girlhood's gentle fondness as it blossomed into love.
Throng before her all the pure hours those sweet stars have dreamed above,
All the story of her young heart, dawning into glad affection,
All my girlhood's gentle fondness as it blossomed into love.
Self-abased, I faced the vision of the truth that I had plighted,
Of the trusting love that so had grown to live and breathe in mine;
Throbbed my temples with a flushing shame, to own such truth I'd slighted
For a homage, O my Edwin! worthless, buried love, to thine.
Of the trusting love that so had grown to live and breathe in mine;
Throbbed my temples with a flushing shame, to own such truth I'd slighted
For a homage, O my Edwin! worthless, buried love, to thine.
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A moment—all the bonds of shame in which that night had bound me,
The pure thoughts of my girlhood and its fair flower have undone;
Wrong might not home amid the dreams its sweetness summoned round me;
A moment—my sweet jessamine and truth and love had won.
The pure thoughts of my girlhood and its fair flower have undone;
Wrong might not home amid the dreams its sweetness summoned round me;
A moment—my sweet jessamine and truth and love had won.
Then wonder not, my gentle girl, that withered spray I treasure,
That lifted me the tempting of an erring pride above,
A pride that fain had lured me on with wildering lights of pleasure,
Through ways that wandered into shame, afar from hope and love.
That lifted me the tempting of an erring pride above,
A pride that fain had lured me on with wildering lights of pleasure,
Through ways that wandered into shame, afar from hope and love.
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