Kitabı oku: «Grand'ther Baldwin's Thanksgiving, with Other Ballads and Poems», sayfa 2

THE CONFESSION

 
     I am glad that you have come,
       Arthur, from the dusty town;
     You must throw aside your cares,
       And relax your legal frown.
     Coke and Littleton, avaunt!
       You have ruled him through the day;
     In this quiet, sylvan haunt,
       Be content to yield your sway.
 
 
     It is pleasant, is it not,
       Sitting here beneath the trees,
     While the restless wind above
       Ripples over leafy seas?
 
 
     Often, when the twilight falls,
       In the shadow, quite alone,
     I have sat till starlight came,
       Listening to its monotone.
     Yet not always quite alone,—
       Brother, let me take the place
     Just behind you now the moon
       Shines no longer in my face.
 
 
     It is near two months ago
       Since I met him, as I think,
     By God's mercy, when my horse
       Trembled on the river's brink.
     I had fallen, but his arm
       Firmly seized the bridle-rein,
     And, with one decided grasp,
       Drew me back to life again.
     I was grateful and essayed
       Fitting words my thanks to speak.
     Arthur, when the heart feels most,
       Words, I think, are oftenest weak.
     So I stammered and I fear,
       What I said had little grace
     But I knew he understood,
       By the smile upon his face.
     There are faces—his was such—
       That are sealed when in repose;
     Only when a smile floods out,
       All the soul in beauty glows.
     With that smile I grew content,
       And my heart grew strangely calm,
     As with trustful step I walked,
       My arm resting on his arm.
 
 
     Brother, turn your face away,
       So, dear, I can tell you best
     All that followed; but be sure
       You are looking to the west.
     Arthur, I have seen him since,
       Nearly every day, until
     If I lose him, all my life
       Would grow wan, and dark, and chill.
     Brother, this my love impute
       Not to me for maiden-shame;
     He has sought me for his wife,
       He would crown me with his name.
     Only yesterday he said
       That my love his life would bless:
     Would I grant it? Arthur, dear,
       Was I wrong in saying "Yes"?
 

ROSE IN THE GARDEN

 
     THIRTY years have come and gone,
       Melting away like Southern Snows,
     Since, in the light of a summer's night,
       I went to the garden to seek my Rose.
 
 
     Mine! Do you hear it, silver moon,
       Flooding my heart with your mellow shine?
     Mine! Be witness, ye distant stars,
       Looking on me with eyes divine!
 
 
     Tell me, tell me, wandering winds,
       Whisper it, if you may not speak—
     Did you ever, in all your round,
       Fan a lovelier brow or cheek?
 
 
     Long I nursed in my heart the love,
       Love which felt, but dared not tell,
     Till, I scarcely know how or when—
       It found wild words,—and all was well!
 
 
     I can hear her sweet voice even now—
       It makes my pulses leap and thrill—
     "I owe you more than I well can pay;
       You may take me, Robert, if you will!"
 
 
     One pleasant summer night,
       the garden  walks alone,
     Looking about with restless eyes,
       Wondering whither my Rose had flown,
 
 
     Till, from a leafy arbor near,
       There came to my ears the sound of speech.
     Who can be with Rose to night?
       Let me hide me under the beach.
 
 
     It must be one of her female friends,
       Talking with her in the gloaming gray;
     Perchance—I thought—they may speak of me;
       Let me listen to what they say.
 
 
     This I said with a careless smile,
       And a joyous heart that was free from fears;
     Little I dreamed that the words I heard
       Would weigh on my heavy heart for years.
 
 
     "Rose, my Rose! for your heart is mine,"
       I heard in a low voice, passion-fraught,
     "In the sight of Heaven we are truly one;
       Why will you cast me away for naught?
 
 
     "Will you give your hand where your heart goes not
       To a man who is grave and stern and old;
     And whose love compared with my passion-heat,
       As the snow of the frozen North, is cold?"
 
 
     And Rose—I could feel her cheek grow pale—
       Her voice was tremulous, then grew strong—
     "Richard," she said, "your words are wild,
       And you do my guardian bitter wrong.
 
 
     "Did you never hear how, years gone by,"—
       She spoke in a tremulous undertone—
     "Bereft of friends, o'er the world's highways,
       I wandered forth as a child alone?
 
 
     "He opened to me his home and heart—
       He whom you call so stern and cold—
     And my grateful heart I may well bestow
       On him for his kindness manifold."
 
 
     "Rose," he said, in a saddened tone,
       "I thank him for all he has done for thee;
     He has acted nobly—I did him wrong—
       But is there no voice in your heart for me?"
 
 
     And Rose—she trembled—I felt it all;
       I heard her quick breath come and go;
     Her voice was broken; she only said,
       "Have pity, Richard, and let me go!"
 
 
     And then—Heaven gave me strength, I think—
       I stood before them calm and still;
     You might have thought my tranquil breast
       Had never known one passion-thrill.
 
 
     And they alternate flushed and paled;
       Rose tottered, and I feared would fall;
     I caught her in supporting arms,
       And whispered, "Rose, I heard it all.
 
 
     "I had a dream, but it is passed,
       That we might journey, hand in hand
     Along the rugged steeps of life,
       Until we reached God's promised land.
 
 
     "This was my dream;—'tis over now;—
       Thank Heaven, it is not yet too late!
     I pray no selfish act of mine
       May keep two young hearts separate."
 
 
     I placed her passive hand in his—
       With how much pain God only knows—
     And blessing him for her sweet sake,
       I left him standing with my Rose!
 

PHOEBE'S WOOING

 
     "PHOEBE! Phoebe! Where is the chit?
       When I want her most she's out of the way.
     Child, you're running a long account
       Up, to be squared on Judgment-day.
 
 
     "Where have you been? and what have you there?"
       "To the pasture for buttercups wet with dew."
     "My patience! I think you are out of your wits;
       I wonder what good will buttercups do?
 
 
     "There's pennyroyal you might have got,—
       It might have been useful to you or me,
     But I never heard, in all my life,
       Of buttercup cordial or buttercup tea.
 
 
     "I want you to stay and mind the bread,
       I've just put two loaves in the oven to bake;
     When they are clone take them carefully out,
       And put in their place this loaf of cake,
 
 
     "While I run over to Widow Brown's;
       Her son, from the mines, has just got back.
     I don't believe he's a cent in his purse,
       Young men are so shiftless now, alack!
 
 
     "It was very different when I was young;
       Young men were prudent, and girls were wise;
     You wouldn't catch them gadding about
       Like so many idle butterflies."
 
 
     So bustled and scolded the worthy dame,
       Until she had passed the outer sill,
     To do her justice, it seldom chanced
       That her hands were idle, or tongue was still.
     So Phoebe gathered her knitting up,
       And sat her down in the chimney niche;
     But her mind was on other thoughts intent,
       And here and there she dropped a stitch.
 
 
     The yellow kitten purred on the hearth,
       While the kitchen clock, with its frame of oak,
     In the corner stood, like a sentinel,
       And challenged time with its measured stroke.
 
 
     But Phoebe's mind was on none of these:
       The bread in the oven, her good aunt's frown,
     And the scene before her faded away,
       And blended with thoughts of Reuben Brown:
 
 
     How they walked together on summer days,
       Or bravely faced the winter's chill,
     And chatted merrily all the way
       To the little school-house on Sligo Hill.
 
 
     How both grew older, and school-days passed,
       When he was a youth, and a maiden she;
     How often she went with Reuben Brown
       To the rustic dance or the social bee.
 
 
     The warm flush deepened on Phoebe's cheek,
       And she breathed a low, half-conscious sigh;
     "Ah, well-a-day! they were happy times,
       But he has forgotten, and so must I."
 
 
     So Phoebe gathered her knitting up,
       Which, while she was thinking, had fallen down,
     When her quick ear caught a strange footfall,
       And there in the doorway stood Reuben Brown,
 
 
     With the same frank, handsome face she knew,
       A smile as bright, and an eye as black—
     "Phoebe," he said, "I have wandered far;
       Are you glad to see your playmate back?"
 
 
     The kitten still purred on the kitchen hearth,
       And the ancient clock, with its frame of oak,
     In the corner stood, like a sentinel,
       And challenged time with its measured stroke.
 
 
     A pleased light shone in the maiden's eyes;
       Ah, love, young love, it is very sweet!
     Reuben had gone, but she sat quite still,
       And the knitting lay untouched at her feet.
 
 
     Just then the dame came bustling in,
       And went to the oven without ado.
     "Why, Phoebe, child, what have you done?
       The bread is baked as black as my shoe!"
 
 
     And Phoebe started, and blushed for shame,
       Took up her knitting and dropped it down;
     And when her aunt said, "What ails you, child?"
       She hastily answered, "Reuben Brown."
 
 
     Ah, love! young love! it is very sweet,
       In field, or hamlet, or crowded mart;
     But it burns with the brightest, purest flame
       In the hidden depths of a young maid's heart.