A New Mother.I was with my lady when she died:I it was who guided her weak hand,For a blessing on each little head,And laid her baby by her on the bed,Heard the words they could not understand.And I drew them round my knee at night,Hushed their childish glee, and made them say,They would keep her words with loving tears,They would not forget her dying fears,Lest the thought of her should fade away.I, who guess’d what her last dread had been,Made a promise to that still, cold face,That her children’s hearts, at any cost,Should be with the mother they had lost,When a stranger came to take her place.And I knew so much: for I had livedWith my lady since her childhood: knownWhat her young and happy days had been,And the grief no other eyes had seen—I had watch’d and sorrow’d for alone.Ah! she once had such a happy smile!I had known how sorely she was tried:Six short years before, her eyes were brightAs her little blue-eyed May’s that night,When she stood by her dead mother’s side.No—I will not say he was unkind;But she had been used to love and praise.He was somewhat grave: perhaps, in truth,Could not weave her joyous, smiling youthInto all his stern and serious ways.She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,First in pride and honor as in grace—She, whose will had once ruled all around,Queen and darling of us all—she foundChange enough in that cold, stately place.Yet she would not blame him, even to me,Though she often sat and wept alone;But she could not hide it near her death,When she said with her last struggling breath,“Let my babies still remain my own!”I it was who drew the sheet aside,When he saw his dead wife’s face. That testSeem’d to strike right to his heart. He said,In a strange, low whisper, to the dead,“God knows, love, I did it for the best!”And he wept—O yes, I will be just—When I brought the children to him there,Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes;And he sooth’d them with his fond repliesBidding me give double love and care.Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake:Little Arthur, with his serious air;May, with all her mother’s pretty ways,Blushing, and at any word of praiseShaking out her sunny golden hair.And the little one of all—poor child!She had cost that dear and precious life.Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady’s name,When the baby’s gloomy christening came,And he call’d her “Olga—like my wife.”Save that time he never spoke of her.He grew graver, sterner every day:And the children felt it, for they dropp’dLow their voices, and their laughter stopp’dWhile he stood and watch’d them at their play.No, he never nam’d their mother’s name.But I told them of her: told them allShe had been, so gentle, good and bright;And I always took them every nightWhere her picture hung in the great hall.There she stood: white daisy’s in her hand,And her red lips parted as to speakWith a smile; the blue and sunny airSeem’d to stir her floating golden hair,And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.Well, so time pass’d on; a year was gone,And Sir Arthur had been much away,When the news came! I shed many tearsWhen I saw the truth of all my fearsRise before me on that bitter day.Any one but her I could have borne!But my lady lov’d her as her friend,Through their childhood and their early youth,How she used to count upon the truthOf this friendship that would never end!Older, graver than my lady was,Whose young, gentle heart on her relied,She would give advice, and praise, and blame,And my lady lean on Margaret’s name,As her dearest comfort, help and guide.I had never liked her, and I thinkThat my lady grew to doubt her tooSince her marriage; for she named her less,Never saw her, and I used to guessAt some secret wrong that I never knew.That might be or not. But now, to hearShe would come and reign here in her stead,With the pomp and splendor of a bride:Would no thought reproach her in her prideWith the silent memory of the dead?Lo the day came, and the bells rang out,And I laid the children’s black aside;And I held each little trembling hand,As I strove to make them understand,They must greet their father’s new-made bride.Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern,And his lady’s eyes might well grow dim,When the children shrank in fear away,—Little Arthur hid his face, and MayWould not raise her eyes, or speak to him.When Sir Arthur bade them greet “their mother,”I was forced to chide, yet proud to hearHow my little loving May replied,With her mother’s pretty air of pride,—“Our dear mother has been dead a year!”Ah! the lady’s tears might well fall fast,As she kiss’d them, and then turned away.She might strive to smile or to forget,But I think some shadow of regretMust have risen to blight her wedding-day.She had some strange touch of self-reproach;For she used to linger day by dayBy the nursery door or garden gateWith a sad, calm, wistful look, and waitWatching the children at their play.But they always shrank away from herWhen she strove to comfort their alarms,And their grave, cold silence to beguile:Even little Olga’s baby smileQuiver’d into tears when in her arms.I never could chide them; for I sawHow their mother’s memory grew more deepIn their hearts. Each night I had to tellStories of her whom I loved so wellWhen a child, to send them off to sleep.But Sir Arthur—O, this was too hard!—He who had been always stern and sadIn my lady’s time, seem’d to rejoiceEach day more; and I could hear his voiceEven, sounding younger and more glad.He might perhaps have blamed them; but his wifeNever failed to take the children’s part.She would stay him with her pleading tone,Saying she would strive, and strive alone,Till she gained each little wayward heart.And she strove indeed, and seem’d to beAlways waiting for their love, in vain;Yet when May had most their mother’s look,Then the lady’s calm, cold accents shookWith some memory of reproachful pain.Little May would never call her mother:So one day, the lady bending low,Kiss’d her golden curls, and softly said,“Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead,—Your dear mother used to call me so.”She was gentle, kind, and patient too,Yet in vain: the children held apart.Ah, their mother’s gentle memory dweltNear them, and her little orphans feltShe had the first claim upon their hearts.So three years pass’d; then the war broke out;And a rumor seemed to spread and rise;First we guess’d what sorrow must befall,Then all doubt fled, for we read it allIn the depths of her despairing eyes.Yes; Sir Arthur had been called awayTo that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife,Now he seemed to know with double painThe cold, bitter gulf that must remainTo divide his children from his wife.Nearer came the day he was to sail,Deeper grew the coming woe and fear,When one night, the children at my knee,Knelt to say their evening prayer to me,I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.There he waited till their low “Amen;”Stopp’d their rosy lips raised for “good night!”Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near,As he bade them stay with him, and hearSomething that would make his heart more light.Little Olga crept into his arms;Arthur leant upon his shoulder; MayKnelt beside him, with her earnest eyesLifted up in patient, calm surprise—I can almost hear his words to-day.“Years ago, my children, years ago,When your mother was a child, she cameFrom her northern home, and here she metLove for love, and comfort for regret,In one early friend,—you know her name.“And this friend—a few years older—gaveSuch fond care, such love, that day by dayThe new home grew happy, joy complete,Studies easier, and play more sweet,While all childish sorrows pass’d away.“And your mother—fragile, like my May—Leant on this deep love,—nor leant in vain.For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!)Gave the sweet and took the bitter part,Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.“Years pass’d on, and then I saw them first:It was hard to say which was most fair,Your mother’s bright and blushing face,Or the graver Margaret’s stately grace;Golden locks, or braided raven hair.“Then it happen’d by a strange, sad fate,One thought entered into each young soul:Joy for one—if for the other pain;Loss for one,—if for the other gain,One must lose, and one possess the whole.“And so this—this—what they car’d for—cameAnd belong’d to Margaret: was her own.But she laid the gift aside, would takePain and sorrow for your mother’s sake,And none knew it but herself alone.“Then she travell’d far away, and noneThe strange mystery of her absence knew,Margaret’s secret thought was never told:Even your mother thought her changed and cold,And for many years I thought so too.“She was gone; and then your mother tookThat poor gift which Margaret cast aside:Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not—What it was had better be forgot;It was just then she became my bride.“Margaret is my dear and honored wife,And I hold her so. But she can claimFrom your hearts dear ones, a loving debtI can neither pay, nor yet forget:You can give it in your mother’s name.”Next day was farewell—a day of tears;Yet Sir Arthur as he rode away,And turned back to see his lady standWith the children clinging to her hand,Look’d as if it were a happy day.Ah, they lov’d her soon! The little oneCrept into her arms as to a nest;Arthur always with her now; and MayGrowing nearer to her every day:—Well, I loved my own dear lady best.—Adelaide Proctor.
A New Mother.I was with my lady when she died:I it was who guided her weak hand,For a blessing on each little head,And laid her baby by her on the bed,Heard the words they could not understand.And I drew them round my knee at night,Hushed their childish glee, and made them say,They would keep her words with loving tears,They would not forget her dying fears,Lest the thought of her should fade away.I, who guess’d what her last dread had been,Made a promise to that still, cold face,That her children’s hearts, at any cost,Should be with the mother they had lost,When a stranger came to take her place.And I knew so much: for I had livedWith my lady since her childhood: knownWhat her young and happy days had been,And the grief no other eyes had seen—I had watch’d and sorrow’d for alone.Ah! she once had such a happy smile!I had known how sorely she was tried:Six short years before, her eyes were brightAs her little blue-eyed May’s that night,When she stood by her dead mother’s side.No—I will not say he was unkind;But she had been used to love and praise.He was somewhat grave: perhaps, in truth,Could not weave her joyous, smiling youthInto all his stern and serious ways.She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,First in pride and honor as in grace—She, whose will had once ruled all around,Queen and darling of us all—she foundChange enough in that cold, stately place.Yet she would not blame him, even to me,Though she often sat and wept alone;But she could not hide it near her death,When she said with her last struggling breath,“Let my babies still remain my own!”I it was who drew the sheet aside,When he saw his dead wife’s face. That testSeem’d to strike right to his heart. He said,In a strange, low whisper, to the dead,“God knows, love, I did it for the best!”And he wept—O yes, I will be just—When I brought the children to him there,Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes;And he sooth’d them with his fond repliesBidding me give double love and care.Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake:Little Arthur, with his serious air;May, with all her mother’s pretty ways,Blushing, and at any word of praiseShaking out her sunny golden hair.And the little one of all—poor child!She had cost that dear and precious life.Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady’s name,When the baby’s gloomy christening came,And he call’d her “Olga—like my wife.”Save that time he never spoke of her.He grew graver, sterner every day:And the children felt it, for they dropp’dLow their voices, and their laughter stopp’dWhile he stood and watch’d them at their play.No, he never nam’d their mother’s name.But I told them of her: told them allShe had been, so gentle, good and bright;And I always took them every nightWhere her picture hung in the great hall.There she stood: white daisy’s in her hand,And her red lips parted as to speakWith a smile; the blue and sunny airSeem’d to stir her floating golden hair,And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.Well, so time pass’d on; a year was gone,And Sir Arthur had been much away,When the news came! I shed many tearsWhen I saw the truth of all my fearsRise before me on that bitter day.Any one but her I could have borne!But my lady lov’d her as her friend,Through their childhood and their early youth,How she used to count upon the truthOf this friendship that would never end!Older, graver than my lady was,Whose young, gentle heart on her relied,She would give advice, and praise, and blame,And my lady lean on Margaret’s name,As her dearest comfort, help and guide.I had never liked her, and I thinkThat my lady grew to doubt her tooSince her marriage; for she named her less,Never saw her, and I used to guessAt some secret wrong that I never knew.That might be or not. But now, to hearShe would come and reign here in her stead,With the pomp and splendor of a bride:Would no thought reproach her in her prideWith the silent memory of the dead?Lo the day came, and the bells rang out,And I laid the children’s black aside;And I held each little trembling hand,As I strove to make them understand,They must greet their father’s new-made bride.Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern,And his lady’s eyes might well grow dim,When the children shrank in fear away,—Little Arthur hid his face, and MayWould not raise her eyes, or speak to him.When Sir Arthur bade them greet “their mother,”I was forced to chide, yet proud to hearHow my little loving May replied,With her mother’s pretty air of pride,—“Our dear mother has been dead a year!”Ah! the lady’s tears might well fall fast,As she kiss’d them, and then turned away.She might strive to smile or to forget,But I think some shadow of regretMust have risen to blight her wedding-day.She had some strange touch of self-reproach;For she used to linger day by dayBy the nursery door or garden gateWith a sad, calm, wistful look, and waitWatching the children at their play.But they always shrank away from herWhen she strove to comfort their alarms,And their grave, cold silence to beguile:Even little Olga’s baby smileQuiver’d into tears when in her arms.I never could chide them; for I sawHow their mother’s memory grew more deepIn their hearts. Each night I had to tellStories of her whom I loved so wellWhen a child, to send them off to sleep.But Sir Arthur—O, this was too hard!—He who had been always stern and sadIn my lady’s time, seem’d to rejoiceEach day more; and I could hear his voiceEven, sounding younger and more glad.He might perhaps have blamed them; but his wifeNever failed to take the children’s part.She would stay him with her pleading tone,Saying she would strive, and strive alone,Till she gained each little wayward heart.And she strove indeed, and seem’d to beAlways waiting for their love, in vain;Yet when May had most their mother’s look,Then the lady’s calm, cold accents shookWith some memory of reproachful pain.Little May would never call her mother:So one day, the lady bending low,Kiss’d her golden curls, and softly said,“Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead,—Your dear mother used to call me so.”She was gentle, kind, and patient too,Yet in vain: the children held apart.Ah, their mother’s gentle memory dweltNear them, and her little orphans feltShe had the first claim upon their hearts.So three years pass’d; then the war broke out;And a rumor seemed to spread and rise;First we guess’d what sorrow must befall,Then all doubt fled, for we read it allIn the depths of her despairing eyes.Yes; Sir Arthur had been called awayTo that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife,Now he seemed to know with double painThe cold, bitter gulf that must remainTo divide his children from his wife.Nearer came the day he was to sail,Deeper grew the coming woe and fear,When one night, the children at my knee,Knelt to say their evening prayer to me,I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.There he waited till their low “Amen;”Stopp’d their rosy lips raised for “good night!”Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near,As he bade them stay with him, and hearSomething that would make his heart more light.Little Olga crept into his arms;Arthur leant upon his shoulder; MayKnelt beside him, with her earnest eyesLifted up in patient, calm surprise—I can almost hear his words to-day.“Years ago, my children, years ago,When your mother was a child, she cameFrom her northern home, and here she metLove for love, and comfort for regret,In one early friend,—you know her name.“And this friend—a few years older—gaveSuch fond care, such love, that day by dayThe new home grew happy, joy complete,Studies easier, and play more sweet,While all childish sorrows pass’d away.“And your mother—fragile, like my May—Leant on this deep love,—nor leant in vain.For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!)Gave the sweet and took the bitter part,Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.“Years pass’d on, and then I saw them first:It was hard to say which was most fair,Your mother’s bright and blushing face,Or the graver Margaret’s stately grace;Golden locks, or braided raven hair.“Then it happen’d by a strange, sad fate,One thought entered into each young soul:Joy for one—if for the other pain;Loss for one,—if for the other gain,One must lose, and one possess the whole.“And so this—this—what they car’d for—cameAnd belong’d to Margaret: was her own.But she laid the gift aside, would takePain and sorrow for your mother’s sake,And none knew it but herself alone.“Then she travell’d far away, and noneThe strange mystery of her absence knew,Margaret’s secret thought was never told:Even your mother thought her changed and cold,And for many years I thought so too.“She was gone; and then your mother tookThat poor gift which Margaret cast aside:Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not—What it was had better be forgot;It was just then she became my bride.“Margaret is my dear and honored wife,And I hold her so. But she can claimFrom your hearts dear ones, a loving debtI can neither pay, nor yet forget:You can give it in your mother’s name.”Next day was farewell—a day of tears;Yet Sir Arthur as he rode away,And turned back to see his lady standWith the children clinging to her hand,Look’d as if it were a happy day.Ah, they lov’d her soon! The little oneCrept into her arms as to a nest;Arthur always with her now; and MayGrowing nearer to her every day:—Well, I loved my own dear lady best.—Adelaide Proctor.
I was with my lady when she died:I it was who guided her weak hand,For a blessing on each little head,And laid her baby by her on the bed,Heard the words they could not understand.And I drew them round my knee at night,Hushed their childish glee, and made them say,They would keep her words with loving tears,They would not forget her dying fears,Lest the thought of her should fade away.I, who guess’d what her last dread had been,Made a promise to that still, cold face,That her children’s hearts, at any cost,Should be with the mother they had lost,When a stranger came to take her place.And I knew so much: for I had livedWith my lady since her childhood: knownWhat her young and happy days had been,And the grief no other eyes had seen—I had watch’d and sorrow’d for alone.Ah! she once had such a happy smile!I had known how sorely she was tried:Six short years before, her eyes were brightAs her little blue-eyed May’s that night,When she stood by her dead mother’s side.No—I will not say he was unkind;But she had been used to love and praise.He was somewhat grave: perhaps, in truth,Could not weave her joyous, smiling youthInto all his stern and serious ways.She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,First in pride and honor as in grace—She, whose will had once ruled all around,Queen and darling of us all—she foundChange enough in that cold, stately place.Yet she would not blame him, even to me,Though she often sat and wept alone;But she could not hide it near her death,When she said with her last struggling breath,“Let my babies still remain my own!”I it was who drew the sheet aside,When he saw his dead wife’s face. That testSeem’d to strike right to his heart. He said,In a strange, low whisper, to the dead,“God knows, love, I did it for the best!”And he wept—O yes, I will be just—When I brought the children to him there,Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes;And he sooth’d them with his fond repliesBidding me give double love and care.Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake:Little Arthur, with his serious air;May, with all her mother’s pretty ways,Blushing, and at any word of praiseShaking out her sunny golden hair.And the little one of all—poor child!She had cost that dear and precious life.Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady’s name,When the baby’s gloomy christening came,And he call’d her “Olga—like my wife.”Save that time he never spoke of her.He grew graver, sterner every day:And the children felt it, for they dropp’dLow their voices, and their laughter stopp’dWhile he stood and watch’d them at their play.No, he never nam’d their mother’s name.But I told them of her: told them allShe had been, so gentle, good and bright;And I always took them every nightWhere her picture hung in the great hall.There she stood: white daisy’s in her hand,And her red lips parted as to speakWith a smile; the blue and sunny airSeem’d to stir her floating golden hair,And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.Well, so time pass’d on; a year was gone,And Sir Arthur had been much away,When the news came! I shed many tearsWhen I saw the truth of all my fearsRise before me on that bitter day.Any one but her I could have borne!But my lady lov’d her as her friend,Through their childhood and their early youth,How she used to count upon the truthOf this friendship that would never end!Older, graver than my lady was,Whose young, gentle heart on her relied,She would give advice, and praise, and blame,And my lady lean on Margaret’s name,As her dearest comfort, help and guide.I had never liked her, and I thinkThat my lady grew to doubt her tooSince her marriage; for she named her less,Never saw her, and I used to guessAt some secret wrong that I never knew.That might be or not. But now, to hearShe would come and reign here in her stead,With the pomp and splendor of a bride:Would no thought reproach her in her prideWith the silent memory of the dead?Lo the day came, and the bells rang out,And I laid the children’s black aside;And I held each little trembling hand,As I strove to make them understand,They must greet their father’s new-made bride.Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern,And his lady’s eyes might well grow dim,When the children shrank in fear away,—Little Arthur hid his face, and MayWould not raise her eyes, or speak to him.When Sir Arthur bade them greet “their mother,”I was forced to chide, yet proud to hearHow my little loving May replied,With her mother’s pretty air of pride,—“Our dear mother has been dead a year!”Ah! the lady’s tears might well fall fast,As she kiss’d them, and then turned away.She might strive to smile or to forget,But I think some shadow of regretMust have risen to blight her wedding-day.She had some strange touch of self-reproach;For she used to linger day by dayBy the nursery door or garden gateWith a sad, calm, wistful look, and waitWatching the children at their play.But they always shrank away from herWhen she strove to comfort their alarms,And their grave, cold silence to beguile:Even little Olga’s baby smileQuiver’d into tears when in her arms.I never could chide them; for I sawHow their mother’s memory grew more deepIn their hearts. Each night I had to tellStories of her whom I loved so wellWhen a child, to send them off to sleep.But Sir Arthur—O, this was too hard!—He who had been always stern and sadIn my lady’s time, seem’d to rejoiceEach day more; and I could hear his voiceEven, sounding younger and more glad.He might perhaps have blamed them; but his wifeNever failed to take the children’s part.She would stay him with her pleading tone,Saying she would strive, and strive alone,Till she gained each little wayward heart.And she strove indeed, and seem’d to beAlways waiting for their love, in vain;Yet when May had most their mother’s look,Then the lady’s calm, cold accents shookWith some memory of reproachful pain.Little May would never call her mother:So one day, the lady bending low,Kiss’d her golden curls, and softly said,“Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead,—Your dear mother used to call me so.”She was gentle, kind, and patient too,Yet in vain: the children held apart.Ah, their mother’s gentle memory dweltNear them, and her little orphans feltShe had the first claim upon their hearts.So three years pass’d; then the war broke out;And a rumor seemed to spread and rise;First we guess’d what sorrow must befall,Then all doubt fled, for we read it allIn the depths of her despairing eyes.Yes; Sir Arthur had been called awayTo that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife,Now he seemed to know with double painThe cold, bitter gulf that must remainTo divide his children from his wife.Nearer came the day he was to sail,Deeper grew the coming woe and fear,When one night, the children at my knee,Knelt to say their evening prayer to me,I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.There he waited till their low “Amen;”Stopp’d their rosy lips raised for “good night!”Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near,As he bade them stay with him, and hearSomething that would make his heart more light.Little Olga crept into his arms;Arthur leant upon his shoulder; MayKnelt beside him, with her earnest eyesLifted up in patient, calm surprise—I can almost hear his words to-day.“Years ago, my children, years ago,When your mother was a child, she cameFrom her northern home, and here she metLove for love, and comfort for regret,In one early friend,—you know her name.“And this friend—a few years older—gaveSuch fond care, such love, that day by dayThe new home grew happy, joy complete,Studies easier, and play more sweet,While all childish sorrows pass’d away.“And your mother—fragile, like my May—Leant on this deep love,—nor leant in vain.For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!)Gave the sweet and took the bitter part,Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.“Years pass’d on, and then I saw them first:It was hard to say which was most fair,Your mother’s bright and blushing face,Or the graver Margaret’s stately grace;Golden locks, or braided raven hair.“Then it happen’d by a strange, sad fate,One thought entered into each young soul:Joy for one—if for the other pain;Loss for one,—if for the other gain,One must lose, and one possess the whole.“And so this—this—what they car’d for—cameAnd belong’d to Margaret: was her own.But she laid the gift aside, would takePain and sorrow for your mother’s sake,And none knew it but herself alone.“Then she travell’d far away, and noneThe strange mystery of her absence knew,Margaret’s secret thought was never told:Even your mother thought her changed and cold,And for many years I thought so too.“She was gone; and then your mother tookThat poor gift which Margaret cast aside:Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not—What it was had better be forgot;It was just then she became my bride.“Margaret is my dear and honored wife,And I hold her so. But she can claimFrom your hearts dear ones, a loving debtI can neither pay, nor yet forget:You can give it in your mother’s name.”Next day was farewell—a day of tears;Yet Sir Arthur as he rode away,And turned back to see his lady standWith the children clinging to her hand,Look’d as if it were a happy day.Ah, they lov’d her soon! The little oneCrept into her arms as to a nest;Arthur always with her now; and MayGrowing nearer to her every day:—Well, I loved my own dear lady best.—Adelaide Proctor.
I was with my lady when she died:I it was who guided her weak hand,For a blessing on each little head,And laid her baby by her on the bed,Heard the words they could not understand.And I drew them round my knee at night,Hushed their childish glee, and made them say,They would keep her words with loving tears,They would not forget her dying fears,Lest the thought of her should fade away.I, who guess’d what her last dread had been,Made a promise to that still, cold face,That her children’s hearts, at any cost,Should be with the mother they had lost,When a stranger came to take her place.And I knew so much: for I had livedWith my lady since her childhood: knownWhat her young and happy days had been,And the grief no other eyes had seen—I had watch’d and sorrow’d for alone.Ah! she once had such a happy smile!I had known how sorely she was tried:Six short years before, her eyes were brightAs her little blue-eyed May’s that night,When she stood by her dead mother’s side.No—I will not say he was unkind;But she had been used to love and praise.He was somewhat grave: perhaps, in truth,Could not weave her joyous, smiling youthInto all his stern and serious ways.She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,First in pride and honor as in grace—She, whose will had once ruled all around,Queen and darling of us all—she foundChange enough in that cold, stately place.Yet she would not blame him, even to me,Though she often sat and wept alone;But she could not hide it near her death,When she said with her last struggling breath,“Let my babies still remain my own!”I it was who drew the sheet aside,When he saw his dead wife’s face. That testSeem’d to strike right to his heart. He said,In a strange, low whisper, to the dead,“God knows, love, I did it for the best!”And he wept—O yes, I will be just—When I brought the children to him there,Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes;And he sooth’d them with his fond repliesBidding me give double love and care.Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake:Little Arthur, with his serious air;May, with all her mother’s pretty ways,Blushing, and at any word of praiseShaking out her sunny golden hair.And the little one of all—poor child!She had cost that dear and precious life.Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady’s name,When the baby’s gloomy christening came,And he call’d her “Olga—like my wife.”Save that time he never spoke of her.He grew graver, sterner every day:And the children felt it, for they dropp’dLow their voices, and their laughter stopp’dWhile he stood and watch’d them at their play.No, he never nam’d their mother’s name.But I told them of her: told them allShe had been, so gentle, good and bright;And I always took them every nightWhere her picture hung in the great hall.There she stood: white daisy’s in her hand,And her red lips parted as to speakWith a smile; the blue and sunny airSeem’d to stir her floating golden hair,And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.Well, so time pass’d on; a year was gone,And Sir Arthur had been much away,When the news came! I shed many tearsWhen I saw the truth of all my fearsRise before me on that bitter day.Any one but her I could have borne!But my lady lov’d her as her friend,Through their childhood and their early youth,How she used to count upon the truthOf this friendship that would never end!Older, graver than my lady was,Whose young, gentle heart on her relied,She would give advice, and praise, and blame,And my lady lean on Margaret’s name,As her dearest comfort, help and guide.I had never liked her, and I thinkThat my lady grew to doubt her tooSince her marriage; for she named her less,Never saw her, and I used to guessAt some secret wrong that I never knew.That might be or not. But now, to hearShe would come and reign here in her stead,With the pomp and splendor of a bride:Would no thought reproach her in her prideWith the silent memory of the dead?Lo the day came, and the bells rang out,And I laid the children’s black aside;And I held each little trembling hand,As I strove to make them understand,They must greet their father’s new-made bride.Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern,And his lady’s eyes might well grow dim,When the children shrank in fear away,—Little Arthur hid his face, and MayWould not raise her eyes, or speak to him.When Sir Arthur bade them greet “their mother,”I was forced to chide, yet proud to hearHow my little loving May replied,With her mother’s pretty air of pride,—“Our dear mother has been dead a year!”Ah! the lady’s tears might well fall fast,As she kiss’d them, and then turned away.She might strive to smile or to forget,But I think some shadow of regretMust have risen to blight her wedding-day.She had some strange touch of self-reproach;For she used to linger day by dayBy the nursery door or garden gateWith a sad, calm, wistful look, and waitWatching the children at their play.But they always shrank away from herWhen she strove to comfort their alarms,And their grave, cold silence to beguile:Even little Olga’s baby smileQuiver’d into tears when in her arms.I never could chide them; for I sawHow their mother’s memory grew more deepIn their hearts. Each night I had to tellStories of her whom I loved so wellWhen a child, to send them off to sleep.But Sir Arthur—O, this was too hard!—He who had been always stern and sadIn my lady’s time, seem’d to rejoiceEach day more; and I could hear his voiceEven, sounding younger and more glad.He might perhaps have blamed them; but his wifeNever failed to take the children’s part.She would stay him with her pleading tone,Saying she would strive, and strive alone,Till she gained each little wayward heart.And she strove indeed, and seem’d to beAlways waiting for their love, in vain;Yet when May had most their mother’s look,Then the lady’s calm, cold accents shookWith some memory of reproachful pain.Little May would never call her mother:So one day, the lady bending low,Kiss’d her golden curls, and softly said,“Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead,—Your dear mother used to call me so.”She was gentle, kind, and patient too,Yet in vain: the children held apart.Ah, their mother’s gentle memory dweltNear them, and her little orphans feltShe had the first claim upon their hearts.So three years pass’d; then the war broke out;And a rumor seemed to spread and rise;First we guess’d what sorrow must befall,Then all doubt fled, for we read it allIn the depths of her despairing eyes.Yes; Sir Arthur had been called awayTo that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife,Now he seemed to know with double painThe cold, bitter gulf that must remainTo divide his children from his wife.Nearer came the day he was to sail,Deeper grew the coming woe and fear,When one night, the children at my knee,Knelt to say their evening prayer to me,I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.There he waited till their low “Amen;”Stopp’d their rosy lips raised for “good night!”Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near,As he bade them stay with him, and hearSomething that would make his heart more light.Little Olga crept into his arms;Arthur leant upon his shoulder; MayKnelt beside him, with her earnest eyesLifted up in patient, calm surprise—I can almost hear his words to-day.“Years ago, my children, years ago,When your mother was a child, she cameFrom her northern home, and here she metLove for love, and comfort for regret,In one early friend,—you know her name.“And this friend—a few years older—gaveSuch fond care, such love, that day by dayThe new home grew happy, joy complete,Studies easier, and play more sweet,While all childish sorrows pass’d away.“And your mother—fragile, like my May—Leant on this deep love,—nor leant in vain.For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!)Gave the sweet and took the bitter part,Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.“Years pass’d on, and then I saw them first:It was hard to say which was most fair,Your mother’s bright and blushing face,Or the graver Margaret’s stately grace;Golden locks, or braided raven hair.“Then it happen’d by a strange, sad fate,One thought entered into each young soul:Joy for one—if for the other pain;Loss for one,—if for the other gain,One must lose, and one possess the whole.“And so this—this—what they car’d for—cameAnd belong’d to Margaret: was her own.But she laid the gift aside, would takePain and sorrow for your mother’s sake,And none knew it but herself alone.“Then she travell’d far away, and noneThe strange mystery of her absence knew,Margaret’s secret thought was never told:Even your mother thought her changed and cold,And for many years I thought so too.“She was gone; and then your mother tookThat poor gift which Margaret cast aside:Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not—What it was had better be forgot;It was just then she became my bride.“Margaret is my dear and honored wife,And I hold her so. But she can claimFrom your hearts dear ones, a loving debtI can neither pay, nor yet forget:You can give it in your mother’s name.”Next day was farewell—a day of tears;Yet Sir Arthur as he rode away,And turned back to see his lady standWith the children clinging to her hand,Look’d as if it were a happy day.Ah, they lov’d her soon! The little oneCrept into her arms as to a nest;Arthur always with her now; and MayGrowing nearer to her every day:—Well, I loved my own dear lady best.—Adelaide Proctor.
I was with my lady when she died:
I it was who guided her weak hand,
For a blessing on each little head,
And laid her baby by her on the bed,
Heard the words they could not understand.
And I drew them round my knee at night,Hushed their childish glee, and made them say,They would keep her words with loving tears,They would not forget her dying fears,Lest the thought of her should fade away.
And I drew them round my knee at night,
Hushed their childish glee, and made them say,
They would keep her words with loving tears,
They would not forget her dying fears,
Lest the thought of her should fade away.
I, who guess’d what her last dread had been,Made a promise to that still, cold face,That her children’s hearts, at any cost,Should be with the mother they had lost,When a stranger came to take her place.
I, who guess’d what her last dread had been,
Made a promise to that still, cold face,
That her children’s hearts, at any cost,
Should be with the mother they had lost,
When a stranger came to take her place.
And I knew so much: for I had livedWith my lady since her childhood: knownWhat her young and happy days had been,And the grief no other eyes had seen—I had watch’d and sorrow’d for alone.
And I knew so much: for I had lived
With my lady since her childhood: known
What her young and happy days had been,
And the grief no other eyes had seen—
I had watch’d and sorrow’d for alone.
Ah! she once had such a happy smile!I had known how sorely she was tried:Six short years before, her eyes were brightAs her little blue-eyed May’s that night,When she stood by her dead mother’s side.
Ah! she once had such a happy smile!
I had known how sorely she was tried:
Six short years before, her eyes were bright
As her little blue-eyed May’s that night,
When she stood by her dead mother’s side.
No—I will not say he was unkind;But she had been used to love and praise.He was somewhat grave: perhaps, in truth,Could not weave her joyous, smiling youthInto all his stern and serious ways.
No—I will not say he was unkind;
But she had been used to love and praise.
He was somewhat grave: perhaps, in truth,
Could not weave her joyous, smiling youth
Into all his stern and serious ways.
She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,First in pride and honor as in grace—She, whose will had once ruled all around,Queen and darling of us all—she foundChange enough in that cold, stately place.
She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,
First in pride and honor as in grace—
She, whose will had once ruled all around,
Queen and darling of us all—she found
Change enough in that cold, stately place.
Yet she would not blame him, even to me,Though she often sat and wept alone;But she could not hide it near her death,When she said with her last struggling breath,“Let my babies still remain my own!”
Yet she would not blame him, even to me,
Though she often sat and wept alone;
But she could not hide it near her death,
When she said with her last struggling breath,
“Let my babies still remain my own!”
I it was who drew the sheet aside,When he saw his dead wife’s face. That testSeem’d to strike right to his heart. He said,In a strange, low whisper, to the dead,“God knows, love, I did it for the best!”
I it was who drew the sheet aside,
When he saw his dead wife’s face. That test
Seem’d to strike right to his heart. He said,
In a strange, low whisper, to the dead,
“God knows, love, I did it for the best!”
And he wept—O yes, I will be just—When I brought the children to him there,Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes;And he sooth’d them with his fond repliesBidding me give double love and care.
And he wept—O yes, I will be just—
When I brought the children to him there,
Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes;
And he sooth’d them with his fond replies
Bidding me give double love and care.
Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake:Little Arthur, with his serious air;May, with all her mother’s pretty ways,Blushing, and at any word of praiseShaking out her sunny golden hair.
Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake:
Little Arthur, with his serious air;
May, with all her mother’s pretty ways,
Blushing, and at any word of praise
Shaking out her sunny golden hair.
And the little one of all—poor child!She had cost that dear and precious life.Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady’s name,When the baby’s gloomy christening came,And he call’d her “Olga—like my wife.”
And the little one of all—poor child!
She had cost that dear and precious life.
Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady’s name,
When the baby’s gloomy christening came,
And he call’d her “Olga—like my wife.”
Save that time he never spoke of her.He grew graver, sterner every day:And the children felt it, for they dropp’dLow their voices, and their laughter stopp’dWhile he stood and watch’d them at their play.
Save that time he never spoke of her.
He grew graver, sterner every day:
And the children felt it, for they dropp’d
Low their voices, and their laughter stopp’d
While he stood and watch’d them at their play.
No, he never nam’d their mother’s name.But I told them of her: told them allShe had been, so gentle, good and bright;And I always took them every nightWhere her picture hung in the great hall.
No, he never nam’d their mother’s name.
But I told them of her: told them all
She had been, so gentle, good and bright;
And I always took them every night
Where her picture hung in the great hall.
There she stood: white daisy’s in her hand,And her red lips parted as to speakWith a smile; the blue and sunny airSeem’d to stir her floating golden hair,And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.
There she stood: white daisy’s in her hand,
And her red lips parted as to speak
With a smile; the blue and sunny air
Seem’d to stir her floating golden hair,
And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.
Well, so time pass’d on; a year was gone,And Sir Arthur had been much away,When the news came! I shed many tearsWhen I saw the truth of all my fearsRise before me on that bitter day.
Well, so time pass’d on; a year was gone,
And Sir Arthur had been much away,
When the news came! I shed many tears
When I saw the truth of all my fears
Rise before me on that bitter day.
Any one but her I could have borne!But my lady lov’d her as her friend,Through their childhood and their early youth,How she used to count upon the truthOf this friendship that would never end!
Any one but her I could have borne!
But my lady lov’d her as her friend,
Through their childhood and their early youth,
How she used to count upon the truth
Of this friendship that would never end!
Older, graver than my lady was,Whose young, gentle heart on her relied,She would give advice, and praise, and blame,And my lady lean on Margaret’s name,As her dearest comfort, help and guide.
Older, graver than my lady was,
Whose young, gentle heart on her relied,
She would give advice, and praise, and blame,
And my lady lean on Margaret’s name,
As her dearest comfort, help and guide.
I had never liked her, and I thinkThat my lady grew to doubt her tooSince her marriage; for she named her less,Never saw her, and I used to guessAt some secret wrong that I never knew.
I had never liked her, and I think
That my lady grew to doubt her too
Since her marriage; for she named her less,
Never saw her, and I used to guess
At some secret wrong that I never knew.
That might be or not. But now, to hearShe would come and reign here in her stead,With the pomp and splendor of a bride:Would no thought reproach her in her prideWith the silent memory of the dead?
That might be or not. But now, to hear
She would come and reign here in her stead,
With the pomp and splendor of a bride:
Would no thought reproach her in her pride
With the silent memory of the dead?
Lo the day came, and the bells rang out,And I laid the children’s black aside;And I held each little trembling hand,As I strove to make them understand,They must greet their father’s new-made bride.
Lo the day came, and the bells rang out,
And I laid the children’s black aside;
And I held each little trembling hand,
As I strove to make them understand,
They must greet their father’s new-made bride.
Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern,And his lady’s eyes might well grow dim,When the children shrank in fear away,—Little Arthur hid his face, and MayWould not raise her eyes, or speak to him.
Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern,
And his lady’s eyes might well grow dim,
When the children shrank in fear away,—
Little Arthur hid his face, and May
Would not raise her eyes, or speak to him.
When Sir Arthur bade them greet “their mother,”I was forced to chide, yet proud to hearHow my little loving May replied,With her mother’s pretty air of pride,—“Our dear mother has been dead a year!”
When Sir Arthur bade them greet “their mother,”
I was forced to chide, yet proud to hear
How my little loving May replied,
With her mother’s pretty air of pride,—
“Our dear mother has been dead a year!”
Ah! the lady’s tears might well fall fast,As she kiss’d them, and then turned away.She might strive to smile or to forget,But I think some shadow of regretMust have risen to blight her wedding-day.
Ah! the lady’s tears might well fall fast,
As she kiss’d them, and then turned away.
She might strive to smile or to forget,
But I think some shadow of regret
Must have risen to blight her wedding-day.
She had some strange touch of self-reproach;For she used to linger day by dayBy the nursery door or garden gateWith a sad, calm, wistful look, and waitWatching the children at their play.
She had some strange touch of self-reproach;
For she used to linger day by day
By the nursery door or garden gate
With a sad, calm, wistful look, and wait
Watching the children at their play.
But they always shrank away from herWhen she strove to comfort their alarms,And their grave, cold silence to beguile:Even little Olga’s baby smileQuiver’d into tears when in her arms.
But they always shrank away from her
When she strove to comfort their alarms,
And their grave, cold silence to beguile:
Even little Olga’s baby smile
Quiver’d into tears when in her arms.
I never could chide them; for I sawHow their mother’s memory grew more deepIn their hearts. Each night I had to tellStories of her whom I loved so wellWhen a child, to send them off to sleep.
I never could chide them; for I saw
How their mother’s memory grew more deep
In their hearts. Each night I had to tell
Stories of her whom I loved so well
When a child, to send them off to sleep.
But Sir Arthur—O, this was too hard!—He who had been always stern and sadIn my lady’s time, seem’d to rejoiceEach day more; and I could hear his voiceEven, sounding younger and more glad.
But Sir Arthur—O, this was too hard!—
He who had been always stern and sad
In my lady’s time, seem’d to rejoice
Each day more; and I could hear his voice
Even, sounding younger and more glad.
He might perhaps have blamed them; but his wifeNever failed to take the children’s part.She would stay him with her pleading tone,Saying she would strive, and strive alone,Till she gained each little wayward heart.
He might perhaps have blamed them; but his wife
Never failed to take the children’s part.
She would stay him with her pleading tone,
Saying she would strive, and strive alone,
Till she gained each little wayward heart.
And she strove indeed, and seem’d to beAlways waiting for their love, in vain;Yet when May had most their mother’s look,Then the lady’s calm, cold accents shookWith some memory of reproachful pain.
And she strove indeed, and seem’d to be
Always waiting for their love, in vain;
Yet when May had most their mother’s look,
Then the lady’s calm, cold accents shook
With some memory of reproachful pain.
Little May would never call her mother:So one day, the lady bending low,Kiss’d her golden curls, and softly said,“Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead,—Your dear mother used to call me so.”
Little May would never call her mother:
So one day, the lady bending low,
Kiss’d her golden curls, and softly said,
“Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead,—
Your dear mother used to call me so.”
She was gentle, kind, and patient too,Yet in vain: the children held apart.Ah, their mother’s gentle memory dweltNear them, and her little orphans feltShe had the first claim upon their hearts.
She was gentle, kind, and patient too,
Yet in vain: the children held apart.
Ah, their mother’s gentle memory dwelt
Near them, and her little orphans felt
She had the first claim upon their hearts.
So three years pass’d; then the war broke out;And a rumor seemed to spread and rise;First we guess’d what sorrow must befall,Then all doubt fled, for we read it allIn the depths of her despairing eyes.
So three years pass’d; then the war broke out;
And a rumor seemed to spread and rise;
First we guess’d what sorrow must befall,
Then all doubt fled, for we read it all
In the depths of her despairing eyes.
Yes; Sir Arthur had been called awayTo that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife,Now he seemed to know with double painThe cold, bitter gulf that must remainTo divide his children from his wife.
Yes; Sir Arthur had been called away
To that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife,
Now he seemed to know with double pain
The cold, bitter gulf that must remain
To divide his children from his wife.
Nearer came the day he was to sail,Deeper grew the coming woe and fear,When one night, the children at my knee,Knelt to say their evening prayer to me,I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.
Nearer came the day he was to sail,
Deeper grew the coming woe and fear,
When one night, the children at my knee,
Knelt to say their evening prayer to me,
I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.
There he waited till their low “Amen;”Stopp’d their rosy lips raised for “good night!”Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near,As he bade them stay with him, and hearSomething that would make his heart more light.
There he waited till their low “Amen;”
Stopp’d their rosy lips raised for “good night!”
Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near,
As he bade them stay with him, and hear
Something that would make his heart more light.
Little Olga crept into his arms;Arthur leant upon his shoulder; MayKnelt beside him, with her earnest eyesLifted up in patient, calm surprise—I can almost hear his words to-day.
Little Olga crept into his arms;
Arthur leant upon his shoulder; May
Knelt beside him, with her earnest eyes
Lifted up in patient, calm surprise—
I can almost hear his words to-day.
“Years ago, my children, years ago,When your mother was a child, she cameFrom her northern home, and here she metLove for love, and comfort for regret,In one early friend,—you know her name.
“Years ago, my children, years ago,
When your mother was a child, she came
From her northern home, and here she met
Love for love, and comfort for regret,
In one early friend,—you know her name.
“And this friend—a few years older—gaveSuch fond care, such love, that day by dayThe new home grew happy, joy complete,Studies easier, and play more sweet,While all childish sorrows pass’d away.
“And this friend—a few years older—gave
Such fond care, such love, that day by day
The new home grew happy, joy complete,
Studies easier, and play more sweet,
While all childish sorrows pass’d away.
“And your mother—fragile, like my May—Leant on this deep love,—nor leant in vain.For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!)Gave the sweet and took the bitter part,Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.
“And your mother—fragile, like my May—
Leant on this deep love,—nor leant in vain.
For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!)
Gave the sweet and took the bitter part,
Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.
“Years pass’d on, and then I saw them first:It was hard to say which was most fair,Your mother’s bright and blushing face,Or the graver Margaret’s stately grace;Golden locks, or braided raven hair.
“Years pass’d on, and then I saw them first:
It was hard to say which was most fair,
Your mother’s bright and blushing face,
Or the graver Margaret’s stately grace;
Golden locks, or braided raven hair.
“Then it happen’d by a strange, sad fate,One thought entered into each young soul:Joy for one—if for the other pain;Loss for one,—if for the other gain,One must lose, and one possess the whole.
“Then it happen’d by a strange, sad fate,
One thought entered into each young soul:
Joy for one—if for the other pain;
Loss for one,—if for the other gain,
One must lose, and one possess the whole.
“And so this—this—what they car’d for—cameAnd belong’d to Margaret: was her own.But she laid the gift aside, would takePain and sorrow for your mother’s sake,And none knew it but herself alone.
“And so this—this—what they car’d for—came
And belong’d to Margaret: was her own.
But she laid the gift aside, would take
Pain and sorrow for your mother’s sake,
And none knew it but herself alone.
“Then she travell’d far away, and noneThe strange mystery of her absence knew,Margaret’s secret thought was never told:Even your mother thought her changed and cold,And for many years I thought so too.
“Then she travell’d far away, and none
The strange mystery of her absence knew,
Margaret’s secret thought was never told:
Even your mother thought her changed and cold,
And for many years I thought so too.
“She was gone; and then your mother tookThat poor gift which Margaret cast aside:Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not—What it was had better be forgot;It was just then she became my bride.
“She was gone; and then your mother took
That poor gift which Margaret cast aside:
Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not—
What it was had better be forgot;
It was just then she became my bride.
“Margaret is my dear and honored wife,And I hold her so. But she can claimFrom your hearts dear ones, a loving debtI can neither pay, nor yet forget:You can give it in your mother’s name.”
“Margaret is my dear and honored wife,
And I hold her so. But she can claim
From your hearts dear ones, a loving debt
I can neither pay, nor yet forget:
You can give it in your mother’s name.”
Next day was farewell—a day of tears;Yet Sir Arthur as he rode away,And turned back to see his lady standWith the children clinging to her hand,Look’d as if it were a happy day.
Next day was farewell—a day of tears;
Yet Sir Arthur as he rode away,
And turned back to see his lady stand
With the children clinging to her hand,
Look’d as if it were a happy day.
Ah, they lov’d her soon! The little oneCrept into her arms as to a nest;Arthur always with her now; and MayGrowing nearer to her every day:—Well, I loved my own dear lady best.—Adelaide Proctor.
Ah, they lov’d her soon! The little one
Crept into her arms as to a nest;
Arthur always with her now; and May
Growing nearer to her every day:—
Well, I loved my own dear lady best.
—Adelaide Proctor.