What does time whisper, youth gay and light,While thinning thy locks, silken and bright,While paling thy soft cheek’s roseate dye,Dimming the light of thy flashing eye,Stealing thy bloom and freshness away—Is he not hinting at death—decay?
Man, in the wane of thy stately prime,Hear’st thou the silent warnings of Time?Look at thy brow ploughed by anxious care,The silver hue of thy once dark hair;—What boot thine honors, thy treasures bright,When Time tells of coming gloom and night?
Sad age, dost thou note thy strength nigh, spent,How slow thy footstep—thy form how bent?Yet on looking back how short doth seemThe checkered coarse of thy life’s brief dream.Time, daily weakening each link and tie,Doth whisper how soon thou art to die.
O! what a weary world were oursWith that thought to cloud our brightest hours,Did we not know that beyond the skiesA land of beauty and promise ties,Where peaceful and blessed we will love—adore—When Time itself shall be no more!
Hush, mourning mother, wan and pale!No sobs—no grieving now:No burning tears must thou let fallUpon that cold still brow;No look of anguish cast above,Nor smite thine aching breast,But clasp thy hands and thank thy God—Thy darling is at rest.
Close down those dark-fringed, snowy lidsOver the violet eyes,Whose liquid light was once as clearAs that of summer skies.Is it not bliss to know what e’erThy future griefs and fears,They will be never dimmed like thineBy sorrow’s scalding tears?
Enfold the tiny fingers fair,From which life’s warmth has fled,For ever freed from wearing toil—The toil for daily bread:Compose the softly moulded limbs,The little waxen feet,Spared wayside journeys long and rough,Spared many a weary beat.
Draw close around the lifeless formThe shreds of raiment torn,Her only birthright—just such ragsAs thou for years hast worn;Her earthly dower the bitter crustShe might from pity crave,Moistened by tears—then, final gift,A pauper’s lowly grave.
Now, raise thy spirit’s gaze above!See’st thou yon angel fair,With flowing robes and starry crownGemming her golden hair?Changed, glorified in every trait,Still with that beauty mild;Oh! mourning mother, thou dost knowThine own, thy late-lost child.
An heir to heaven’s entrancing bliss,Veiled in its golden glow,Still thinks she of the lonely heartLeft on this earth below.Courage!—not long thy weary stepsO’er barren wastes shall roam,Thy daring prays the Father nowTo quickly call thee home!
She stands in front of her mirrorWith bright and joyous air,Smoothes out with a skilful handHer waves of golden hair;But the tell tale roses on her cheek,So changing yet so bright,And downcast, earnest eye betrayNew thoughts are hers to-night.
Then say what is the fairy spell,Around her beauty thrown,Lending a new and softer charmTo every look and tone?It is the hidden consciousness—The blissful, joyous thoughtThat she, at length hath wholly wonThe heart she long had sought.
To-morrow is her bridal day,That day of hopes and fears,Of partings from beloved friends,Of sunshine and of tears:To-morrow will she says the words,Those words whose import deepWill fix her future lot in life—Well might she pause and weep!
Yet, only once, a passing cloudRests on her girlish brow,Her dark eye gleameth restlessly—She’s thinking of her vow.But quick as light and fleecy cloudsFlit o’er a summer sky,The shadow passeth from her brow,The trouble from her eye.
In silvery tones she murmurs forth“My heart is light and glad,Youth, beauty, hope, are all mine own,Then, why should I be sad?To graver hearts leave graver thoughtsAnd all foreboding fears,For me, life’s sunshine and its flowers,—I am too young for tears!”
Silence now reigns in the corridors wide,The stately rooms of that mansion of pride;The music is hushed, the revellers gone,The glitt’ring ball-room deserted and lone,—Silence and gloom, like a clinging pall,O’ershadow the house—’tis after the ball.
Yet a light still gleams in a distant room,Where sits a girl in her “first season’s bloom;”Look at her closely, is she not fair,With exquisite features, rich silken hairAnd the beautiful, child-like, trusting eyesOf one in the world’s ways still unwise.
The wreath late carefully placed on her browShe has flung on a distant foot-stool now;The flowers, exhaling their fragrance sweet,Lie crushed and withering at her feet;Gloves and tablets she has suffered to fall—She seems so weary after the ball!
Ah, more than weary! How still and white,With rose-tipped fingers entwined so tight:A grieved, pained look on that forehead fair,One which it never before did wear,And soft eyes gleam through a mist of tears,Telling of secret misgivings and fears.
Say, what is it all? Why, some April care,Or some childish trifle, baseless as air;For the griefs that call forth girlhood’s tearsWould but win a smile in maturer years,When the heart has learned, ’mid pain and strife,Far sterner lessons from the book of life.
Ah! far better for thee, poor child, I ween,Had thy night been spent in some calmer scene,Communing with volume or friend at will,Or in innocent slumber, calm and still;Thou would’st not feel so heart-weary of allAs thou to night thou feelest, “after the ball!”
The lights yet gleamed on the holy shrine, the incense hung around,But the rites were o’er, the silent church re-echoed to no sound;Yet kneeling there on the altar steps, absorbed in ardent prayer,Is a girl, as seraph meek and pure—as seraph heav’nly fair.
The blue eyes, veiled by the lashes long that rest on that bright cheekAre humbly bent, while the snow-white hands are clasped in fervor meek,While in the classic lip and brow, each feature of that face,And graceful high-bred air, is seen she comes of noble race.
But, say, what means that dusky robe, that dark and flowing veil,The silver cross—oh! need we ask? they tell at once their tale:They say that, following in the path that fair as she have trod,She hath renounced a fleeting world, to give herself to God.
Her sinless heart to no gay son of this earth hath she given,Her’s is a higher, holier lot, to be the Bride of Heaven;And the calm peace of the cloister’s walls, abode of humble worth,Is the fit home for that spotless dove, too fair, too pure for earth.
Amid the flowers of a garden gladeA lovely rose tree smiled,And the sunbeams shone, the zephyrs played,’Round the gardens favorite child;And the diamond dew-drops glistening fellOn each rose’s silken vest,Whilst light winged bee and butterfly gayOn the soft leaves loved to rest.
But one morn while a sunbeam brightLit up its delicate bloom,And a zephyr lightly hovered ’round,On wings of sweet perfume,A strong hand came, and ruthlesslyTore up the parent tree,And bore it off, with each fair young rose,From butterfly, zephyr and bee.
What mattered it that an antique vaseOfSèvrescostly and old,Was destined, henceforth, in royal State,Its fair young form to hold?What mattered it that the richest silksOf the far famed Indian loom,With priceless marbles paintings rare,Adorned its prison room?
It even pined for the garden free,For its pleasant friends of yore,And brooded over the bitter thought,It would never see them more:And its young head daily lowlier droopedUpon its sorrowing breast,While it chafed against the kindly handThat tended and caressed.
But Autumn came with angry storms,With clouded and wintry skies—Rudely it touched the lovely flowers,And withered their brilliant dyes;The sunbeam false hid its glowing glance,Or with chilling coldness shone;The zephyr fled to Southern climes,And the flowers died alone
Then the rose tree looked on the gloomy earth,On each withered tree and flower,And it warmly blessed the loving careOf its new, protecting power:—No more it mourned past Summer joys,But brightly blossomed on,With beauty brighter than when once,The garden’s queen, it shone.
Yes, leave my side to flirt with Maude,To gaze into her eyes,To whisper in her ear sweet words,And low impassioned sighs;And though she give you glance for glance,And smile and scheme and plot,You cannot raise a jealous thought,I know you love her not.
Now turn to laughing Lulu,That Witty, gay coquette,With her teeth of shining pearl,Her eyes and hair of jet:With a mirthful smile imprisonHer hand within your own,And softly press it—what care I?You love but me alone.
To Ida’s chair you wander,You’re bending o’er her now,Until your own dark curls have brushedAgainst her queenly brow;In vain she strives to bind youWith fascinating spell;For if sharply now I suffer,You suffer too as well.
This fit of gay coquetryIs meant, ah! well I knowTo avenge my quiet flirtingAt our ball a night ago,With that winning, handsome stranger,—Remember, Harry dear,’Twas yourself who introduced him,Yourself who brought him here.
Let us cease this cruel warfare,Come back to me again!Ah, what do we reap from flirtingBut heartaches, mutual pain?You’ll forgive my past shortcomings—Be tender as of yoreAnd we both will make a promiseTo henceforth flirt no more.
To all my fond rhapsodies, Charley,You have wearily listened, I fear;As yet not an answer you’ve givenSave a shrug, or an ill-concealed sneer;Pray, why, when I talk of my marriage,Do you watch me with sorrowing eye?’Tis you, hapless bachelor, Charley,That are to be pitied—not I!
You mockingly ask me to tell you,Since to bondage I soon must be sold,Have I wisely chosen my fetters,Which, at least, should be forged of pure gold.Hem! the sole wealth my love possessesAre her tresses of bright golden hair,Pearly teeth, lips of rosiest coral,Eyes I know not with what to compare.
Don’t talk about all I surrender—My club, champagne dinners, cigars,My hand atécarté, my harmlessFlirtations with Opera “stars.”Think of the pleasant home, Charley—Home! I utter the word with just pride—Its music, soft lights, countless comforts,Over which she will smiling preside.
And picture in fancy the welcomeThat will greet my arrival each night!How she’ll help me to take off my wrappingsWith her dear little fingers so white;The sweet silvery voice that will utterThe airiest nothings with grace,The smiles that will dimple all overThat loving and lovely young face.
If sickness should ever o’ertake me,O! just think how cherished I’ll be—What loving cares, gentle caresses,Shall be showered on fortunate me;While you in some lone, gloomy attic,To dull death posting off at quick pace,Will encounter no tokens of pitySave the smirk on some pert waiter’s face.
And who, perhaps, twelve hours after,Bringing up your weak tea and dry toast,Will look in, find you “gone,” and drawl forth,“Number ten has just given up the ghost.”Then, Charley, to good counsel listen,Brave not an old bachelor’s fate,But, doing as I’ve done, go marryA loving and loveable mate.
Why turn from me thus with such petulant pride,When I ask thee, sweet Edith, to be my bride;When I offer the gift of heart fond and true,And with loyalty seek thy young love to woo?With patience I’ve waited from week unto week,And at length I must openly, candidly speak.
But why dost thou watch me in doubting surprise,Why thus dost thou raise thy dark, deep, melting eyes?Can’st thou wonder I love thee, when for the last yearWe have whispered and flirted—told each hope and fear;When I’ve lavished on thee presents costly and gay,And kissed thy fair hands at least six times each day?
What! Do I hear right? So those long sunny hoursSpent wand’ring in woods or whispering in bowers,Our love-making ardent in prose and in rhyme,Was just only a method of passing the time!A harmless flirtation—the fashion just now,To be closed, by a smile, or a jest, or a bow!
Ah, believe me, fair Edith, with me ’twas not so,And I would I had known this but six months ago;I would not have wasted on false, luring smiles,On graces coquettish and cold, studied wiles,True love that would give thee a life for thy life,And guarded and prized thee, a fond, worshipped wife.
Oh I thou’rt pleased now to whisper my manners are good,And my smiles such as maiden’s heart rarely withstood,My age just the thing—nor too young nor too old—My character faultless, naught lacking but gold,And to-day might I claim e’en thy beauty so rareIf good Uncle John would but make me his heir.
Many thanks, my best Edith! I now understandFor what thou art willing, to barter thy hand:A palace-like mansion with front of brown stone,In some splendid quarter to fashion well known,Sèvreschina, conservatory, furniture rare,Unlimited pin-money, phaeton and pair.
It is well, gentle lady! The price is not highWith a figure like thine, such a hand, such an eye,Most brilliant accomplishments, statuesque face,Manners, carriagedistinguéand queenlike in grace,—Nothing wanting whatever, save only a heart,But, instead, double portions of cunning and art.
Ah! well for me, lady, I have learned in good timeTo save myself misery—you, sordid crime.I will garner the love that so lately was thineFor one who can give me a love true as mine;But learn ere we part, Edith, peerless and fair,Uncle John has just died and has left me his heir!
I leave for thee, beloved one,The home and friends of youth,Trusting my hopes, my happiness,Unto thy love and truth;I leave for thee my girlhood’s joys,Its sunny, careless mirth,To bear henceforth my share amidThe many cares of earth.
And yet, no wild regret I giveTo all that now I leave,The golden dreams, the flow’ry wreathsThat I no more may weave;The future that before me liesA dark and unknown sea—Whate’er may be its storms or shoals,I brave them all with thee!
I will not tell thee now of loveWhose life, ere this, thou’st guessed,And which, like sacred secret, longWas treasured in my breast;Enough that if thy lot be calm,Or storms should o’er it sweep,Thou’lt learn that it is woman’s love,Unchanging, pure and deep.
In this life’s sunshine gild thy lot,Bestowing wealth and pride,Its light enjoying, I shall stand,Rejoicing, at thy side;But, oh! if thou should’st prove the griefsThat blight thy fellow-men,’Twilt be my highest, dearest right,To be, love, with thee then.
And thou, wilt thou not promise meThy heart will never change,That tones and looks, so loving now,Will ne’er grow stern and strange?That thou’lt be kind, whatever faultsOr failings may be mine,And bear with them in patient love,As I will bear with thine?
Fair tiny rosebud! what a tideOf hidden joy, o’erpow’ring, deep,Of grateful love, of woman’s pride,Thrills through my heart till I must weepWith bliss to look on thee, my son,My first born child—my darling one!
What joy for me to sit and gazeUpon thy gentle, baby face,And, dreaming of far distant days,With mother’s weakness strive to traceTokens of future greatness high,On thy smooth brow and lustrous eye.
What do I wish thee, darling, say?Is it that lordly mental powerThat o’er thy kind will give thee sway,Unchanging, full, a glorious dowerFor those whose minds may grasp its worth,True rulers and true kings of earth?
Or would I ask for thee that fireOf wond’rous genius, great divine,The spell that charms the poet’s lyre,Till like a halo it will shineAround a name praised, honored, sung,In distant climes by many a tongue?
Ah, no! my child, with such vain themesI will not mar thy quiet restNor wish ambition’s restless dreamsInfused into thy tranquil breast;Too soon will manhood’s weight of careO’ercloud that waxen brow so fair.
For thee, my Babe, I only prayThou’lt live to bless thy parents’ love,To be their hope, their earthly stay,And gaining grace from heaven above,Tread in the path the good have trod,True to thy country and thy God!
The snow-flakes were softly fallingAdown on the landscape white,When the violet eyes of my first bornOpened unto the light;And I thought as I pressed him to me,With loving, rapturous thrill,He was pure and fair as the snow-flakesThat lay on the landscape still.
I smiled when they spoke of the wearyLength of the winter’s night,Of the days so short and so dreary,Of the sun’s cold cheerless light—I listened, but in their murmursNor by word nor thought took part,For the smiles of my gentle darlingBrought light to my home and heart.
Oh! quickly the joyous springtimeCame back to our ice-bound earth,Filling meadows and woods with sunshine,And hearts with gladsome mirth,But, ah! on earth’s dawning beautyThere rested a gloomy shade,For our tiny household blossomBegan to droop and fade.
And I, shuddering, felt that the frailestOf the flowers in the old woods dimHad a surer hold on existenceThan I dared to hope for him.In the flush of the summer’s beautyOn a sunny, golden day,When flowers gemmed dell and upland,My darling passed away.
Now I chafed at the brilliant sunshineThat flooded my lonely room,Now I wearied of bounteous Nature,So full of life and bloom;I regretted the wintry hoursWith the snow-flakes falling fast,And the little form of my nurslingWith his arms around me cast.
They laid his tiny garmentIn an attic chamber high,His coral, his empty cradle,That they might not meet my eye;And his name was never uttered,What e’er each heart might feel,For they wished the wound in my bosomMight have tune to close and heal.
It has done so thanks to that PowerThat has been my earthly stay,And should you talk of my darling,I could listen now all day,For I know that each passing minuteBrings me nearer life’s last shore,And nearer that glorious KingdomWhere we both shall meet once more!
The world had chafed his spirit proudBy its wearing, crushing strife,The censure of the thoughtless crowdHad touched a blameless life;Like the dove of old, from the water’s foam,He wearily turned to the ark of home.
Hopes he had cherished with joyous heart,Had toiled for many a day,With body and spirit, and patient art,Like mists had melted away;And o’er day-dreams vanished, o’er fond hopes flown,He sat him down to mourn alone.
No, not alone, for soft fingers restOn his hot and aching brow,Back the damp hair is tenderly pressedWhile a sweet voice whispers low:“Thy joys have I shared, O my husband true,And shall I not share thy sorrows too?”
Vain task to resist the loving gazeThat so fondly meets his own,Revealing a heart that cares for praiseFrom him and him alone;And though censure and grief upon him pall,Unto to her, at least, he is all in all.
What though false friends should turn aside,Or chill with icy look;What though he meet the pitying pride,The proud heart ill can brook;There are depths of love in one gentle heart,Whose faith with death alone will part.
Aye! well may thy brow relax its gloom,For a talisman hast thou’Gainst hopes that are blighted in their bloom,’Gainst scornful look or brow—Herheart is a high and a holy throneWhere monarch supreme thou reignest alone.
Kindly return her tender gaze,Press closely that little hand,Whisper fond words and soothing praise—They are ever at thy command;It is all the harvest she asks to reapIn return for love as the ocean deep.
Dear mother, dry those flowing tears,They grieve me much to see;And calm, oh! calm thine anxious fears—What dost thou dread for me?’Tis true that tempests wild oft rideAbove the stormy main,But, then, in Him I will confideWho doth their bounds ordain.
I go to win renown and fameUpon the glorious sea;But still my heart will be the same—I’ll ever turn to thee!See, yonder wait our gallant crew,So, weep not, mother dear;My father was a sailor too—What hast thou then to fear?
Is it not better I should seekTo win the name he bore,Than waste my youth in pastimes weakUpon the tiresome shore?Then, look not thus so sad and wan,For yet your son you’ll seeReturn with wealth and honors wonUpon the glorious sea.
Whilst others give thee wond’rous toys,Or jewels rich and rare,I bring but flowers—more meet are theyFor one so young and fair.
’Tis not because that snowy browMight with the lily vie,Or violet match the starry glanceOf that dark, lustrous eye;
Nor yet because a brighter blushE’en rose leaf never wore,But ’tis that in their leaves lies hidA rare and mystic lore.
And with its aid I now shall formA wreath of flow’rets wild—Graceful, and full of meaning sweet,To deck thy brow, fair child!
The primrose, first, the emblem fitOf budding, early youth;The daisy in whose leaves we readPure innocence and truth.
The rosebud, sign of youthful charms,We well may give to thee,And with it join the sweet frail leavesOf the shrinking sensitive tree.
And, tribute to thy modesty,The violet emblem meet,—Itself concealing, yet on allShedding its perfume sweet.
And for thy kind and gentle heartWe bring the jessamine,To twine with ivy, ever green—True friendship’s sacred sign.
Thy wreath is formed—of blossoms brightI’ve twined each link, and, yet,Another flower I still must add,The fragrant mignonnette,
Which says “However great the charmsThat to thy lot may fallThy qualities of heart and mindBy far surpass them all.”
Aye, be it thus, and ever mayThis lovely wreath, as now—Emblem of every precious gift—Be fit to deck thy brow.
But, last and dearest, ’mid the budsOf that bright varied lotMust ever be, my gentle child,The sweet forget-me-not!
I sit by the fire musing,With sad and downcast eye,And my laden breast gives utt’ranceTo many a weary sigh;Hushed is each worldly feeling,Dimmed is each day-dream bright—O heavy heart, can’st tell meWhy I’m so sad to-night?
’Tis not that I mourn the freshnessOf youth fore’er gone by—Its life with pulse high springing,Its cloudless, radiant eye—Finding bliss in every sunbeam,Delight in every part,Well springs of purest pleasureIn its high ardent heart.
Nor yet is it for those dear onesWho’ve passed from earth awayThat I grieve—in spirit kneelingAbove their beds of clay;O, no! while my glance upraisingTo yon calm shining sky,My pale lips, quivering, murmur,“They are happier than I!”
But, alas! my spirit mournsAs, weary, it looks back—Finding naught of good or holyOn life’s past barren track—I mourn for the countless errorsThat on mem’ry’s page crowd on,And sorrow for lost chancesOf good I might have done.
But, courage! I must arouse me,The day is not yet o’er,And I still may make atonementEre leaving life’s last shore:One act of meek oblation,A tear of penance bright,Will be counted as rare treasuresIn heaven’s loving sight.
O say, dear sister, are you comingForth to the fields with me?The very air is gaily ringingWith hum of bird and bee,And crowds of swallows now are chirpingUp in our ancient thorn,And earth and air are both rejoicing,On this gay summer morn.
Shall we hie unto the streamlet’s sideTo seek our little boat,And, plying our oars with right good will,Over its bright waves float?Or shall we loll on the grassy bankFor hours dreamy, still,To draw from its depths some silv’ry prize,Reward of angler’s skill?
I do not talk of the tempting gameThe forest covers hide,So dear to the sportsman—plovers shy,Pheasants with eye of pride,For I know your timid nature shrinksFrom flash of fire-arm bright,And the birds themselves hear not the dinWith more intense affright.
But we may tread the cool wood’s paths,And wander there for hours,Discovering hidden fairy dells,Be-gemmed with lovely flowers;And while you weave them in varied wreaths;In oaks of giant sizeI’ll seek for nests of cunning shape—I, too, must win some prize.
Then, sister, listen! squander notThese hours of precious timeWith stupid book or useless work—It is indeed a crime;But haste with me to the wood-lands green,Where forest warblers singAnd bees are humming—like them, too,We must be on the wing.
Buried in childhood’s cloudless dreams, a fair-haired nursling lay,A soft smile hovered round the lips as if still oped to pray;And then a vision came to him, of beauty, strange and mild,Such as may only fill the dreams of a pure sinless child.
Stood by his couch an angel fair, with radiant, glitt’ring wingsOf hues as bright as the living gems the fount to Heaven flings;With loving smile he bent above the fair child cradled there,While sounds of sweet seraphic power stole o’er the fragrant air.
“Child, list to me,” he softly said, “on mission high I’m here:Sent by that Glorious One to whom Heav’n bows in loving fear;I seek thee now, whilst thou art still on the threshold of earth’s strife,To speak of what thou knowest not yet, this new and wond’rous life.
“Dost cling to it? dost find this earth a fair and lovely one?Dost love its bright-dyed birds and flowers, its radiant golden sun?I come to bid thee leave it all—to turn from its bright bloom,And, having closed thine eyes in death, descend into the tomb.
“Thou shudderest, child! with restless gaze from me thou turn’st away;’Mid summer flowers and singing birds wouldst thou remain to play;Thou still wouldst bask in the dear light of thy fond father’s smile,And on thy mother’s doating heart would linger yet awhile.
“’Tis well, sweet child, I blame thee not, but in spheres far awayAre blossoms lovelier far than those which tempt thee here to stay;And if the love of parents fond with joy thy heart doth fill,In those bright distant realms is One who loves thee better still!
“That One for thee in suffering lived—for thy sake, too, he died;Oh! like the ocean is His love, as deep, my child, as wide.Leave, then, this earth ere hideous sin thy spotless brow shall dim—One struggling breath, one parting pang, and then thou’lt be with Him!”
A smile lit up the sleeper’s face, but soon it softly fled,The rose leaf cheeks and lips grew wan—could it be the child was dead?Yes, dead—and spared the ills of life, and in bright bliss aboveThe pure soul nestles in the light of God’s unbounded Love.
“Child of my love, why wearest thouThat pensive look and thoughtful brow?Can’st gaze abroad on this world so fairAnd yet thy glance be fraught with care?Roses still bloom in glowing dyes,Sunshine still fills our summer skies,Earth is still lovely, nature glad—Why dost thou look so lone and sad?”
“Ah! mother it once sufficed thy childTo cherish a bird or flow’ret wild;To see the moonbeams the waters kiss,Was enough to fill her heart with bliss;Or o’er the bright woodland stream to bow,But these things may not suffice her now.”
“Perhaps ’tis music thou seekest, child?Then list the notes of the song birds wild,The gentle voice of the mountain breeze,Whispering among the dark pine trees,The surge sublime of the sounding main,Or thy own loved lute’s soft silvery strain.”
“Mother, there’s music sweeter I knowThan bird’s soft note or than ocean’s flow,Vague to me yet as sounds of a dream,Yet dearer, brighter than sunshine’s gleam;Such is the music I fain would hear,All other sounds but tire mine ear!”
“Ah! thou seekest then a loving heart,That in all thy griefs will bear a part,That shelter will give in doubt and fear,Come to me, loved one, thou’lt find it here!”
“Sweet mother, I almost fear to speak,And remorseful blushes dye my cheek,For though thou’st watched me from childhood’s hour,As thou would’st have done a precious flower,Though I love thee still as I did of yore,Yet this weak heart seeketh something more:
A bliss as yet to my life unknown,A heart whose throbs will be all mine own,The tender tones of a cherished voice,Of him who shall be my heart’s first choice;And who at my feet alone shall bow,This, this is the dream that haunts me now.”
“Alas, poor child, has it come to this?Then bid farewell to thy childhood’s bliss,To thy girlhood’s bright unfettered hours,Thy sunny revels ’mid birds and flowers;Of the golden zone yield up each strandTo cling to a hope, unstable as sand,And forget the joys thy youth hath woveIn the stormy doubts of human love,The feverish hopes and wearing painThat form the links of Love’s bright chain!” Alas! the mother spoke in vain!
The girl’s dream was soon fulfilled,Her hopes by no dark cloud were chilled;A lover ardent, noble too,With flashing eyes of jetty hue,With voice like music, sweet and soft,Such as her dreams had pictured oft,Now at her feet, a suppliant bowed,And love eternal, changeless vowed.
Listening, then, with glowing cheek,And rapture which no words might speak,She thought, with bright and joyous smile,They erred who thus could love revile,Or say it had many a dark alloy,—Had it not proved a dream of joy?
But, alas for her! she learned too soonThat love is fleeting as rose of June,That her eyes might shine with olden light,And yet be found no longer bright;That she might devoted, faithful prove,Yet her lover grow weary of her love.Many an hour of silent tears,Of heart-sick doubts, of humbling fears,Of angry regrets, were hers, beforeHer heart would say, “He loves no more.”
Weary of life and its thorny ways,She sought the friend of her early days:“Mother, I bring thee a breaking heart,In sorrows deep it hath borne a part;Speak to me tenderly as of yore,Let thy kiss rest on my brow once more;To the joys of my girlhood back I flee,To live alone for them and for thee!”
Young mother! proudly throbs thine heart, and well may it rejoice,Well may’st thou raise to Heaven above in grateful prayer thy voice:A gift hath been bestowed on thee, a gift of priceless worth,Far dearer to thy woman’s heart than all the wealth of earth.
What store of deep and holy joy is opened to thy thought—Glad, sunny dreams of future days, with bliss and rapture fraught;Of hopes as varied, yet as bright, as beams of April sun,And plans and wishes centred all within thy darling one!
While others seek in changing scenes earth’s happiness to gain,In fashion’s halls to win a joy as dazzling as ’tis vain—A bliss more holy far is thine, far sweeter and more deep,To watch beside thine infant’s couch and bend above his sleep.
What joy for thee to ling’ring gaze within those cloudless eyes,Turning upon thee with a glance of such sweet, strange surprise,Or press a mother’s loving kiss upon that fair, white brow,Of all earth’s weight of sin and care and pain unconscious now.
Then, as thy loved one’s sleeping breath so softly fans thy cheek,And gazing on that tiny form, so lovely, yet so weak,A dream comes o’er thee of the time when nobly at thy sideThy cherished son shall proudly stand, in manhood’s lofty pride.
Yet a sad change steals slowly o’er thy tender, loving eye,Thou twin’st him closer to thy heart, with fond and anxious sigh,Feeling, however bright his course he too must suff’ring know,Like all earth’s children taste alike life’s cup of care and woe.
But, oh! it lies within thy power to give to him a spellTo guard him in the darkest hour from sorrow safe and well;Thou’lt find it in the narrow path the great and good have trod—And thou thyself wilt teach it him—the knowledge of his God!
Thou art home at last, my darling one,Flushed and tired with thy play,From morning dawn until setting sunHast thou been at sport away;And thy steps are weary—hot thy brow,Yet thine eyes with joy are bright,—Ah! I read the riddle, show me nowThe treasures thou graspest tight.
A pretty pebble, a tiny shell,A feather by wild bird cast,Gay flowers gathered in forest dell,Already withering fast,Four speckled eggs in a soft brown nest,Thy last and thy greatest prize,Such the things that fill with joy thy breast,With laughing light thine eyes.
Ah! my child, what right have I to smileAnd whisper, too dearly bought,By wand’ring many a weary mile—Dust, heat, and toilsome thought?For we, the children of riper years,Task aching heart and brain,Waste yearning hopes and anxious fearsOn baubles just as vain.
For empty title, ribbon or star,For worshipped and much-sought gold,How men will struggle at home—afar—And suffer toils untold;Plodding their narrow and earth-bound wayAmid restless care and strife,Wasting not merely a fleeting day,But the precious years of life.
And thou, fair child, with to-morrow’s dawnWilt rise up calm and glad,To cull wild flowers ’mid wood and lawn,Untroubled by memory sad;But, alas! the worldly-wise of earth,When life’s last bonds are riven,Will find that for things of meanest worthThey’ve lost both Life and Heaven.
Gentle Lily with this Album my warmest wishes take,I know its pages oft thou’lt ope and prize it for my sake,For, though a trifling offering, it bears the magic spellOf coming from the hand of one who loves thee passing well.
O could thy young life’s course be traced by will or wish of mine,A smiling, joyous future—a bright lot would be thine,No cloud should mar the gladness of thy fair youth’s op’ning morn,The roses of thy girlhood should be free from blight or thorn.
Howe’er, ’tis better ordered by a Blessed Power aboveWho sends us cross and trial, as a token of His Love;For we’d cling, ah! far too closely to earthly joys and ties,Unwilling e’er to leave them for our home beyond the skies.
As the pages of this volume, unwritten, stainless, fair,Life opens out before thee, let it be thine aim and careTo keep the record spotless, and ever free from allThat thou might’st wish hereafter remorseful to recall.
Not seeking to o’ershadow thy smiling azure eyes,Nor see that girlish bosom heave with sad thoughts and sighs,I would whisper low, while wishing thee, all earthly, cloudless bliss,Be life a preparation for a better life than this!
They grew together side by side,They filled one house with gleeTheir graves are severed far and wide—By mountain stream and tree.
Mrs. Hemans
They were as fair and bright a band as ever filled with prideParental hearts whose task it was children beloved to guide;And every care that love upon its idols bright may showerWas lavished with impartial hand upon each fair young flower.
Theirs was the father’s merry hour sharing their childish bliss,The mother’s soft breathed benison and tender, nightly kiss;While strangers who by chance might see their joyous graceful play,To breathe some word of fondness kind would pause upon their way.
But years rolled on, and in their course Time many changes brought,And sorrow in that household gay his silent power wrought!The sons had grown to gallant men of lofty heart and brow,The fairy like and joyous girls were thoughtful women now.
The hour of changes had arrived, and slowly, one by one,The playmates left the parent’s roof, their own career to run;The eldest born, the mother’s choice, whose soft and holy smileIn childhood’s days had told of heart as angel’s free from guile.
Formed in resolve, and scorning all earth’s pleasures and its fame,Had offered up his life to God, a teacher of His name:His spirit sighed not long on earth, he found a quiet grave’Mid forests wild whose shades he’d sought the Red man’s soul to save.
Far diff’rent was the stirring choice of his youthful brother gay,His was the glitt’ring sword and flag, the drum, the war steed’s neigh;And the proud spirit that had marked his childhood’s earliest hourDistinguished still the warrior brave in manhood’s lofty power.
Alas for him, and visions vain of fame that lured him on,An early grave in a distant land was the only goal he won!His gaze bedimmed that yearned for home rested on alien skies,And alien watchers wiped death’s damps, and closed his dying eyes.
A third with buoyant heart, had sought far India’s burning soil,Thinking to win wealth’s treasures by a few years’ eager toil,But ere those years had sped their course, from earth’s cares he was free,—He sleeps beneath the shadow of the date and mango tree.
But the sisters who had brightened once the home now desolate—Lived they to mourn each brother’s loss? was theirs a happier fate?In childhood’s sports and youth’s high dreams they’d borne a happy part,But severed they were doomed ere long in death to sleep apart.
The tall and dark-eyed girl whose laugh, so full of silvery glee,Had ever told of spirit light, from care and shadow free,Had early left her happy home, the bright and envied brideOf a husband whose ancestral name betokened wealth and pride.
Alas for her who in youth’s hour had basked in love’s sunshine,That husband stern deserted her in cold neglect to pine;The merry smile soon fled her lip, the sparkling light her eye,In vain she sought a southern clime, she only went to die.
And now of all the lovely band who’d joined in mirth of old,There is, alas! but one sweet flower whose tale remains untold:She was the joy, the pride of all, that gentle girl, and fair,—With deep and dreamy azure eyes and shining golden hair.
E’en her bold brothers, in their youth, were gentle when she played,From reckless sports, from daring games their eager hands they stayed;And when amid their thoughtless mirth harsh feelings might awake,They ever yielded to her prayers, and rested for her sake.
Oh! hers was far the brightest lot in life’s eventful race!She passed from earth ere care had left upon her brow one trace—She passed from earth with loving ones grouped round her dying bed,And on a mother’s tender breast rested her throbbing head.
’Twas thus that each beloved one of that bright joyous band,Save her, had found a lonely grave in a far distant land;Yet murmurs ’gainst high heaven’s decrees as impious were as vain—For in far happier regions will that household meet again!
The night lamp is faintly gleamingWithin my chamber still,And the heavy shades of midnightEach gloomy angle fill,And my worn and weary watchersScarce dare to move or weep,For they think that I am buriedIn deep and quiet sleep.
But, hush! what are those voicesHeard on the midnight air,Of strange celestial sweetness,Breathing of love and prayer?Nearer they grow and clearer,I hear now what they say—To the Kingdom of God’s glory,They’re calling me away!
See my gentle mother softlyTo me approaches now,What is the change she readethUpon my pale damp brow?She clasps her hands in anguishWhose depth no words might say?Has she, too, heard the voicesThat are calling me away?
The father fond of my children,First sole love of my youth,The loving, the gentle hearted,And full of manly truth,Is kneeling now beside me,Beseeching me to stay—Oh! ’tis agony to tell himThey’re calling me away.
If earthly love could conquerThe mighty power of Death,Hislove would stay the currentOf failing strength and breath!That voice whose tender fondnessSo long has been my stayShould tempt me from the voicesThat are calling me away.
Ah! they bring my children to me,That loved and lovely band,And with wistful awe-struck faces,Around my couch they stand,And I strain each gentle darlingTo me with wailing cry,As I for the first time murmur:“My God! ’tis hard to die!”
But, O hark! Those strains of Heaven,Sound louder in mine ear,Whisp’ring: “Thy God, Thy Father,Will guard those children dear.”Louder they grow, now drowningAll sounds of mortal birth,And in wild triumphant sweetnessBear me aloft from earth!