Hagar :: :: University of Virginia Library

All day the wild November storm
Swept round the farm house door.
It shook the apples from the trees;
It stripped the maples of their leaves,
And paved the well-path o'er.

All day a sad-eyed woman sat,
And sewed the dreary seams;
While through the clouded window-pane
She watched the restless wind and rain,
And thought of her lost dreams.

Three Springs had gone, since from the earth
Had passed her only child!
She was her idol, at that shrine
Was offered incense pure and fine,
Since then she never smil'd!

Her life was narrow, pent within,
The housewife's beaten round;
She loved the flowers about the door,
And since her Ora was no more,
She loved her lowly mound.

If gold were hers, a marble pile
Had told her deathless love!
She had only flowers, fresh and fair
And these she gathered everywhere,
To place the grave above.

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Rare roses that her hand had rear'd
With patient toil and care,
She brought each spring, and set them 'round
That hallowed spot, her sacred mound,
To shed their sweetness there.

But when the Autumn leaves began
To strew the well-path o'er;
Her soul was filled with grief and gloom,
She swept them fiercely with the brooom,
And wished they'd come no more.

For when the world grew dark to her,
She heard the night winds rave
Around the house, and in the morn
The maple leaves, all stripped and torn,
Lay thick about the grave.

Her thoughts went ever in one groove,
“No griefs like mine,” she said,
“The years may come, the years may go,
The tide of life run faint and low;
And still I'll mourn my dead.”

PART II.

She heard the rain upon the roof,
That dread November eve,
The skies were dark, her heart like lead
Within her sank, then something said;
“O Mother! do not grieve!”

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Was it a vision, that she saw?
The loved one seemed to stand
Beside her bed, so sweet and fair;
The soft brown eyes, the waving hair,
With a lily in her hand!

And through the sounding rain she heard
Her Ora's pleading tone,
“O do not grieve,” she said, “for me,
I live, yes, still I live for thee;
And think of thee alone!

Thy sorrow weighs me to the earth,
I strive to rise in vain.
I see afar the heavenly heights;
I long to taste their pure delights,
Yet with thee I remain!

Linger not mother by thy hearth,
The mourning world is wide!
Would'st thou from sorrow have reprieve;
Seek other sufferers to relieve,
With grief to thine allied.

Would'st thou plant flowers on my grave,
The pure and deathless flowers?
Visit each sick and suffering one;
Do all that thou for me hast done,
To soothe their dying hours.

And peace shall visit thy sad heart,
Thy burden lifted be,
Thy blessings shall be manifold,
And through the clouds, the rift of gold
Thine eyes shall plainly see.”

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She heard no more, the vision passed,
And vanished slow away,
Sleep fell upon her eyes, and when
The morning dawned all fair again,
She rose up with the day.

And took her burden wearily
Of care, and grief and pain;
Since to her mind, the vision seemed
A phantom of the night,—a dream
Born of the wind and rain.