Kitabı oku: «Grand'ther Baldwin's Thanksgiving, with Other Ballads and Poems», sayfa 3

THE LOST HEART

 
       One golden summer day,
       Along the forest-way,
     Young Colin passed with blithesome steps alert.
 
 
       His locks with careless grace
       Rimmed round his handsome face
     And drifted outward on the airy surge.
 
 
       So blithe of heart was he,
       He hummed a melody,
     And all the birds were hushed to hear him sing.
 
 
       Across his shoulders flung
       His bow and baldric hung:
     So, in true huntsman's guise, he threads the wood.
 
 
       The sun mounts up the sky,
       The air moves sluggishly,
     And reeks with summer heat in every pore.
 
 
       His limbs begin to tire,
       Slumbers his youthful fire;
     He sinks upon a violet-bed to rest.
 
 
       The soft winds go and come
       With low and drowsy hum,
     And ope for him the ivory gate of dreams.
 
 
       Beneath the forest-shade
       There trips a woodland maid,
     And marks with startled eye the sleeping youth.
 
 
       At first she thought to fly,
       Then, timid, drawing nigh,
     She gazed in wonder on his fair young face.
 
 
       When swiftly stooping down
       Upon his locks so brown
     She lightly pressed her lips, and blushing fled.
 
 
       When Colin woke from sleep,
       From slumbers calm and deep,
     He felt—he knew not how—his heart had flown.
 
 
       And so, with anxious care,
       He wandered here and there,
     But could not find his lost heart anywhere.
 
 
       Then he, with air distraught,
       And brow of anxious thought,
     Went out into the world beyond the wood.
 
 
       Of each that passed him by,
       He queried anxiously,
     "I prithee, hast thou seen a heart astray?"
 
 
       Some stared and hurried on,
       While others said in scorn.
     "Your heart has gone in search of your lost wits"
 
 
       The day is wearing fast,
       Young Colin comes at last
     To where a cottage stood embowered in trees.
 
 
       He looks within, and there
       He sees a maiden fair,
     Who sings low songs the while she plies her wheel.
 
 
       "I prithee, maiden bright,"—
       She turns as quick as light,
     And straight a warm flush crimsons all her face.
 
 
       She, much abashed, looks down,
       For on his locks so brown
     She seems to see the marks her lips have made.
       Whereby she stands confest;
       What need to tell the rest?
     He said, "I think, fair maid, you have my heart.
 
 
       "Nay, do not give it back,
       I shall not feel the lack,
     If thou wilt give to me thine own therefor."
 

JOHN MAYNARD

 
     'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse
       One bright midsummer day,
     The gallant steamer Ocean Queen
       Swept proudly on her way.
     Bright faces clustered on the deck,
       Or, leaning o'er the side,
     Watched carelessly the feathery foam
       That flecked the rippling tide.
 
 
     Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,
       That smiling bends serene,
     Could dream that danger awful, vast,
       Impended o'er the scene,—
     Could dream that ere an hour had sped
       That frame of sturdy oak
     Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,
       Blackened with fire and smoke?
 
 
     A seaman sought the captain's side,
       A moment whispered low;
     The captain's swarthy face grew pale;
       He hurried down below.
     Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp,
       And clear his orders came,
     No human efforts could avail
       To quench the insidious flame.
 
 
     The bad news quickly reached the deck,
       It sped from lip to lip,
     And ghastly Faces everywhere
       Looked from the doomed ship.
     "Is there no hope—no chance of life?"
       A hundred lips implore,
     "But one," the captain made reply,
       "To run the ship on shore."
 
 
     A sailor, whose heroic soul
       That hour should yet reveal,
     By name John Maynard, eastern-born,
       Stood calmly at the wheel.
     "Head her south-east!" the captain shouts,
       Above the smothered roar,—
     "Head her south-east without delay!
       Make for the nearest shore!"
 
 
     No terror pales the helmsman's cheek,
       Or clouds his dauntless eye,
     As, in a sailor's measured tone,
       His voice responds, "Ay! ay!"
     Three hundred souls, the steamer's freight,
       Crowd forward wild with fear,
     While at the stern the dreaded flames
       Above the deck appear.
 
 
     John Maynard watched the nearing flames,
       But still with steady hand
     He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly
       He steered the ship to land.
     "John Maynard, can you still hold out?"
       He heard the captain cry;
     A voice from out the stifling smoke
       Faintly responds, "Ay! ay!"
 
 
     But half a mile! a hundred hands
       Stretch eagerly to shore.
     But half a mile! That distance sped
       Peril shall all be o'er.
     But half a mile! Yet stay, the flames
       No longer slowly creep,
     But gather round that helmsman bold,
       With fierce, impetuous sweep.
 
 
     "John Maynard!" with an anxious voice
       The captain cries once more,
     "Stand by the wheel five minutes yet,
       And we shall reach the shore."
     Through flame and smoke that dauntless heart
       Responded firmly still,
     Unawed, though face to face with death,—
       "With God's good help I will!"
 
 
     The flames approach with giant strides,
       They scorch his hand and brow;
     One arm, disabled, seeks his side,
       Ah! he is conquered now!
     But no, his teeth are firmly set,
       He crushes down his pain,
     His knee upon the stanchion pressed,
       He guides the ship again.
 
 
     One moment yet! one moment yet!
       Brave heart, thy task is o'er,
     The pebbles grate beneath the keel.
       The steamer touches shore.
     Three hundred grateful voice rise
       In praise to God that he
     Hath saved them from the fearful fire,
       And from the engulphing sea.
 
 
     But where is he, that helmsman bold?
       The captain saw him reel,—
     His nerveless hands released their task,
       He sank beside the wheel.
     The wave received his lifeless corpse,
       Blackened with smoke and fire.
     God rest him! Never hero had
       A nobler funeral pyre!
 

FRIAR ANSELMO

 
     Friar Anselmo (God's grace may he win!)
     Committed one sad day a deadly sin;
 
 
     Which being done he drew back, self-abhorred,
     From the rebuking presence of the Lord,
 
 
     And, kneeling down, besought, with bitter cry,
     Since life was worthless grown, that he might die.
 
 
     All night he knelt, and, when the morning broke,
     In patience still he waits death's fatal stroke.
 
 
     When all at once a cry of sharp distress
     Aroused Anselmo from his wretchedness;
 
 
     And, looking from the convent window high,
     He saw a wounded traveller gasping lie
 
 
     Just underneath, who, bruised and stricken sore,
     Had crawled for aid unto the convent door.
 
 
     The friar's heart with deep compassion stirred,
     When the poor wretch's groans for help were heard
 
 
     With gentle hands, and touched with love divine,
     He bathed his wounds, and poured in oil and wine.
 
 
     With tender foresight cared for all his needs,—
     A blessed ministry of noble deeds.
 
 
     In such devotion passed seven days. At length
     The poor wayfarer gained his wonted strength.
 
 
     With grateful thanks he left the convent walls,
     And once again on death Anselmo calls.
 
 
     When, lo! his cell was filled with sudden light,
     And on the wall he saw an angel write,
 
 
     (An angel in whose likeness he could trace,
     More noble grown, the traveller's form and face),
 
 
     "Courage, Anselmo, though thy sin be great,
     God grants thee life that thou may'st expiate.
 
 
     "Thy guilty stains shall be washed white again,
     By noble service done thy fellow-men.
 
 
     "His soul draws nearest unto God above,
     Who to his brother ministers in love."
 
 
     Meekly Anselmo rose, and, after prayer,
     His soul was lightened of its past despair.
 
 
     Henceforth he strove, obeying God's high will,
     His heaven-appointed mission to fulfil.
 
 
     And many a soul, oppressed with pain and grief,
     Owed to the friar solace and relief.