University of Virginia Library

Storms yet, and thunder,
Alarm night and day,
And rain o'er the wheat-fields
Flies, blown into spray.
Or snow-wreaths fantastic,
The calm hollows fill;
But 'mid all the wildness
The spring liveth still.

Deep down by the streamlet
The woodbine is green,
And plants with green blossoms
Alive may be seen;
And under the snow-tufts
That to the hedge cling,
The thorn's tender leaflets
Are whispering of spring.

And larks, never fearing
The storm-darkened dawn,
Proclaim there will yet be
A daisy-snowed lawn;
And thrushes are chanting
Wherever we go;
The green spring is living
Beneath the white snow.

And so in its season
Each flower will unfold,
And summer and autumn
Will come, as of old;
And under the wildest
Snow-heapings of care
That chills human longings,
Hope lives sheltered there.

“Yes, I will come, sweet love,” the student said
And said again, but still he never came.
And Lily, with an aching heart, obeyed
Her father, and no more went out to meet
Her lover. Thus it was for many weeks,
And Jacob saw that she was sorrowful,
And oft in tears. “But it is best,” he thought;
“He is a farmer's son, and she is but
A cottar's daughter, therefore it is meet
That if he woos my child it should be known.
Oh, could I with a wish the memory
Of all this wooing veil, and bring again
Her blitheness and her bloom! For she may pine,
As maidens oft have pined for worthless men;
And she may think 'tis I who am the cause
Of all her grief—a tyrant grey and grim,
And cruel and exacting. Oh, if thou
Art near us, Catherine, dry our daughter's tears!
Oh, Spirit of her Mother, comfort her!”

Still deaf to all the urging of her heart,
She, as her father wished her, stayed at home.
At length there came a letter from the farm—
Her first love-letter—pleading for a smile,
And vowing endless love, and saying, “Come,
O Lily, come but once again! To-night
I shall be waiting for you in the glen.”

She read it with a blush, and then her pride
Awakened, rose indignant, answering “No!”
But now the messenger was gone, and none
To take a scornful answer to the farm.
Then Love began to plead with Pride, and Pride,
A little yielding, listened. Pity then
Took part with Love, and said, “He's sure to sit
Till midnight, sad and patient, in the glen.”
And thus, and thus, till Pride, subdued, replied,
Assenting with a semblance of dissent,
“I will not go to meet him but this once—
This once to tell him I will come no more.”

So in the evening fortune favoured her;
For as her father, lost in Milton, sat,
And she, beside him, knitted wearily,
Inventing in her fancy fictions wild
And errands plausible that might secure
An hour from home, and when it seemed that she
Must boldly tell some lie or stay at home
(To such a dire dilemma was she driven),
A youth came in—he was no stranger there—
Came, as he said, to have a game at draughts,
If Jacob cared. So Milton down was laid,
And soon they in the game had lost themselves.

The welcome youth was Walter. Rumour said
That Jacob's draught-board had for him less charms
Than Jacob's daughter, and it might be true,
For often with a luckless lack of skill
He played when she was present. If she spoke,
Her father had an easy victory.
To-night her silence favoured so the youth
(See on what trifling issues fate depends!)
That Jacob, playing with his utmost skill,
Had twice astonished lost, and when again
He sat, sore pressed, some trifling thing she asked,
He answered, “Tuts!” and then with joy she saw
That now the hour she fretted for had come.
Poor girl! she fancied 'twas the work of chance.
She rose and said, “I'll leave you to your play.”
“Yes,” said her father, “for I want this game.”
So then she laid her knitting down, and stole
Away, unquestioned, 'mong the silver birks,
To sit beside the student in the glen.

There till the moon began to glide across
The wooded slope, still brightening as it passed
From tree to tree, she sat and let his hand
Toy with her yellow ringlets, listening to
The sweetest tale that ever gladdened heart.
And yet to-night her heart it gladdened not,
Because at times a wild word startled her
(Strange words to which no maiden could reply),
And with a deeper crimson flushed her cheek.
And so she listened silent, and at length,
Encouraged by her silence, he began
To scoff at marriage rites, and said that banns
Were but a priest's invention, and that love,
True love, despised the trammels of the Church.
Then she indignant rose, and said, “And I,
If it be so, have never known true love.
Let me go home.”

“Already, Lily, love!
What! are you angry? It was but a jest.”
“A jest?” she said; “it was not like a jest.
The moon's far up. 'Tis time that I were home.”

She sadly spoke, but from her cast his hand,
And from the bower passed like an injured queen.
And when she rose in anger, and above
His passion towered, he could have worshipped her,
But up the glen he followed lingeringly,
Abashed and silent, but at length he spoke.
He begged to be forgiven. He meant no ill.
Oh no! He would not harm her for a world.
She knew not what to think, but she began
To fear that she had wronged him in her wrath,
And, loath to part in anger, sorrowing,
Relenting, tearful, let him take her hand,
And listened to his passionate appeal.

He told her o'er again how dear she was;
How, if she would not smile, he could not live;
How all his thoughts had “Lily” in their midst;
How every dream was but a sweet romance
Where she was Beauty's queen, and he the knight
Who won her from the world. “Alas!” he said,
“Love's course is ever smoothest in my dreams.
To-day, alone, I by the river strolled,
And dreamed of you in song, and had a hope
To let you hear it, sitting in the bower,
Where sympathy among the leaves would sit
And smooth away its roughness; but it seems
That even my poorest purposes are not
So insignificant but envious Fate
Must stoop to cross them. Will you hear it now?”
“I care not; if you choose. 'Tis nought to me.”
“Nought, Lily?” “Nought,” she said; and then she heard:—

“What think you, Lily? Do you like the song?”
“Like it? I nothing heard but flattery.”
“What can I say? I fear you will but think
I flatter too, if I defend the song.
But if the Muse that hangs about it still,
Unwilling to desert her last sweet work,
Might speak, be sure she would declare the lay
A poor, poor tribute to my Lily's charms.”
“Perhaps,” she coldly said; “I cannot tell.
But, hear me, I have kept it till the last,
It is so hard to say. I came to-night
To tell you we must never meet again.
So, Willie, let us part. My father wills,
And Heaven, too, wills, that we should meet no more;
Else surely such a little easy task
As some few hours spent in my father's house
Would not prevent our meeting. Let us part.”
“Oh, wherefore, Lily? wherefore should we part?”
But with a queenly motion of her hand
She silence urged, then thus: “Once in her heart
A maiden hid the image of a man.
It was to her a god—she worshipped it,
And worthy of her reverence it seemed,
For all the virtues that make good men great
Seemed in the image to have found a home.
Oh how she loved it, dreaming or awake!
At length her father, watching o'er her weal,
Found out she had an idol in her heart,
And questioned her about it, wishing but
To know if it was worthy of its shrine.
‘My daughter, I must see your idol's face,—
I wish to look a moment in its eyes,’
He said. How happy was she! sure beyond
The harbouring of doubt, soul-full of faith
That no imagined trial e'er could prove
Her idol was unworthy of her love.
But still ('twas strange) it shunned her father's eye,
Refusing to be gazed at. Then she grew
Less certain, watchful, thoughtful, and at length
She found that that which seemed the purest gold,
Alas! had but its glitter, and was but
A bit of basest brass. She wept to find
She had been so deceived, but 'mid her tears,
Out from its honoured temple in her heart
She plucked the gilded guile, and cast it down,
And spurned it from her. Was it not well done?”
Then sudden flashing her blue eyes in his,
As in the moon's unclouded light she stood,
Again she asked him, “Was it not well done?”

He stood astonished. Never had she been
So beautiful,—so far above his reach;
And there in her defence stood stern Distrust,
And maidenly Alarm. He bowed, 'tis true,
Before them with a quailing eye, but true
'Tis also that he vowed, “She shall be mine;”
And by a whirl of passion, borne beyond
The limit of his wildest fancies, sware
He from that hour would seek, with tireless zeal,
T' inspire new faith. “It will indeed be grand”
(Some nameless devil whispered in his ear)
“To wile away Alarm, and where Distrust
Sits watchful, even her very soul to win.”
But now he seemed remorseful, and indeed
The little nervous trembling in his voice
Had half its source in sorrow. “Oh,” he said,
“You cannot, Lily, cast your idol out
For such small cause. It is of purest gold,
And so will prove itself. As for this test,
Which would be foolish, but that on it hangs
A world of happiness,—this simple test—
Would it were something dreadful—it will dare.
To-morrow, Lily, at your father's hearth,
If you will let me, I will come and sit.
Oh think not I have shunned him, Lily love,
Because I feared his eye. It was not that:
You are his daughter, that is cause enough!
But boldness, Love, I'll summon for your sake,
And let your father search me with his eye.
Yet wherefore, Lily, if I from your heart
Have as a bit of basest brass been cast,
Unworthy of my temple? Oh, it seems
Impossible that such a cruel thing
Should come, and of its coming give no sign!
For one night more I will not think it true.
Your faith, Love, give me till to-morrow night;
Say, shall I come?” She left him saying “Yes.”
And so they parted—he to hurry home,
The hawthorn shootings plucking as he went,
And strewing them about him vacantly
Soul-full of admiration; and before
The watch-dog welcomed him he had resolved
To yield himself to fate, (what else could he?)
And keep his latest promise to his love.
At home she found her father still at play—
So had she hoped—keen seeking for the move
On which the honour of the evening hung.
Her entrance closed the battle; for the youth
Acknowledging her presence by a look,
Saw sorrow on her face, and when again
He moved, he gave the victory away,
And, lost in play, her father had not dreamed
His truant daughter had been out so long,—
Her absence he had hardly once observed.