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 tears
Would 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 all
As thou to night thou feelest, "after the ball!"
THE YOUNG NOVICE.
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
cheek
Are 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.
THE TRANSPLANTED ROSE TREE.
Amid the flowers of a garden glade
A lovely rose tree smiled,
And the sunbeams shone, the zephyrs played,
'Round the gardens favorite child;
And the diamond dew-drops glistening fell
On each rose's silken vest,
Whilst light winged bee and butterfly gay
On the soft leaves loved to rest.
But one morn while a sunbeam bright
Lit up its delicate bloom,
And a zephyr lightly hovered 'round,
On wings of sweet perfume,
A strong hand came, and ruthlessly
Tore up the parent tree,
And bore it off, with each fair young rose,
From butterfly, zephyr and bee.
What mattered it that an antique vase
Of _Sèvres_ costly and old,
Was destined, henceforth, in royal State,
Its fair young form to hold?
What mattered it that the richest silks
Of 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 drooped
Upon its sorrowing breast,
While it chafed against the kindly hand
That 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 care
Of 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.
FLIRTATION.
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 imprison
Her 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 brushed
Against her queenly brow;
In vain she strives to bind you
With fascinating spell;
For if sharply now I suffer,
You suffer too as well.
This fit of gay coquetry
Is meant, ah! well I know
To avenge my quiet flirting
At 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 flirting
But heartaches, mutual pain?
You'll forgive my past shortcomings--
Be tender as of yore
And we both will make a promise
To henceforth flirt no more.
HARRY (ENGAGED TO BE MARRIED) TO
CHARLEY (WHO IS NOT).
To all my fond rhapsodies, Charley,
You have wearily listened, I fear;
As yet not an answer you've given
Save 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 possesses
Are 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 at _écarté_, my harmless
Flirtations 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 welcome
That will greet my arrival each night!
How she'll help me to take off my wrappings
With her dear little fingers so white;
The sweet silvery voice that will utter
The airiest nothings with grace,
The smiles that will dimple all over
That 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 pity
Save 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 marry
A loving and loveable mate.
A MODERN COURTSHIP.
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 year
We 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 hours
Spent 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 rare
If good Uncle John would but make me his heir.
Many thanks, my best Edith! I now understand
For 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,
_Sèvres_ china, conservatory, furniture rare,
Unlimited pin-money, phaeton and pair.
It is well, gentle lady! The price is not high
With a figure like thine, such a hand, such an eye,
Most brilliant accomplishments, statuesque face,
Manners, carriage _distingué_ and 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 time
To save myself misery--you, sordid crime.
I will garner the love that so lately was thine
For 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!_
VOICES OF THE HEARTH.
TO MY HUSBAND ON OUR WEDDING-DAY.
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 amid
The many cares of earth.
And yet, no wild regret I give
To all that now I leave,
The golden dreams, the flow'ry wreaths
That I no more may weave;
The future that before me lies
A 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 love
Whose life, ere this, thou'st guessed,
And which, like sacred secret, long
Was 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 griefs
That blight thy fellow-men,
'Twilt be my highest, dearest right,
To be, love, with thee then.
And thou, wilt thou not promise me
Thy heart will never change,
That tones and looks, so loving now,
Will ne'er grow stern and strange?
That thou'lt be kind, whatever faults
Or failings may be mine,
And bear with them in patient love,
As I will bear with thine?
TO MY FIRST BORN.
Fair tiny rosebud! what a tide
Of hidden joy, o'erpow'ring, deep,
Of grateful love, of woman's pride,
Thrills through my heart till I must weep
With bliss to look on thee, my son,
My first born child--my darling one!
What joy for me to sit and gaze
Upon thy gentle, baby face,
And, dreaming of far distant days,
With mother's weakness strive to trace
Tokens of future greatness high,
On thy smooth brow and lustrous eye.
What do I wish thee, darling, say?
Is it that lordly mental power
That o'er thy kind will give thee sway,
Unchanging, full, a glorious dower
For those whose minds may grasp its worth,
True rulers and true kings of earth?
Or would I ask for thee that fire
Of wond'rous genius, great divine,
The spell that charms the poet's lyre,
Till like a halo it will shine
Around a name praised, honored, sung,
In distant climes by many a tongue?
Ah, no! my child, with such vain themes
I will not mar thy quiet rest
Nor wish ambition's restless dreams
Infused into thy tranquil breast;
Too soon will manhood's weight of care
O'ercloud that waxen brow so fair.
For thee, my Babe, I only pray
Thou'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!
GIVEN AND TAKEN.
The snow-flakes were softly falling
Adown on the landscape white,
When the violet eyes of my first born
Opened unto the light;
And I thought as I pressed him to me,
With loving, rapturous thrill,
He was pure and fair as the snow-flakes
That lay on the landscape still.
I smiled when they spoke of the weary
Length 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 murmurs
Nor by word nor thought took part,
For the smiles of my gentle darling
Brought light to my home and heart.
Oh! quickly the joyous springtime
Came back to our ice-bound earth,
Filling meadows and woods with sunshine,
And hearts with gladsome mirth,
But, ah! on earth's dawning beauty
There rested a gloomy shade,
For our tiny household blossom
Began to droop and fade.
And I, shuddering, felt that the frailest
Of the flowers in the old woods dim
Had a surer hold on existence
Than I dared to hope for him.
In the flush of the summer's beauty
On a sunny, golden day,
When flowers gemmed dell and upland,
My darling passed away.
Now I chafed at the brilliant sunshine
That flooded my lonely room,
Now I wearied of bounteous Nature,
So full of life and bloom;
I regretted the wintry hours
With the snow-flakes falling fast,
And the little form of my nursling
With his arms around me cast.
They laid his tiny garment
In 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 bosom
Might have tune to close and heal.
It has done so thanks to that Power
That has been my earthly stay,
And should you talk of my darling,
I could listen now all day,
For I know that each passing minute
Brings me nearer life's last shore,
And nearer that glorious Kingdom
Where we both shall meet once more!
HUSBAND AND WIFE.
The world had chafed his spirit proud
By its wearing, crushing strife,
The censure of the thoughtless crowd
Had 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 rest
On his hot and aching brow,
Back the damp hair is tenderly pressed
While 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 gaze
That so fondly meets his own,
Revealing a heart that cares for praise
From 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--
_Her_ heart is a high and a holy throne
Where 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 reap
In return for love as the ocean deep.
A BOY'S HOPES.
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 ride
Above the stormy main,
But, then, in Him I will confide
Who doth their bounds ordain.
I go to win renown and fame
Upon 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 seek
To win the name he bore,
Than waste my youth in pastimes weak
Upon the tiresome shore?
Then, look not thus so sad and wan,
For yet your son you'll see
Return with wealth and honors won
Upon the glorious sea.
TO A BEAUTIFUL CHILD ON HER BIRTHDAY,
WITH A WREATH OF FLOWERS.
Whilst others give thee wond'rous toys,
Or jewels rich and rare,
I bring but flowers--more meet are they
For one so young and fair.
'Tis not because that snowy brow
Might with the lily vie,
Or violet match the starry glance
Of that dark, lustrous eye;
Nor yet because a brighter blush
E'en rose leaf never wore,
But 'tis that in their leaves lies hid
A rare and mystic lore.
And with its aid I now shall form
A wreath of flow'rets wild--
Graceful, and full of meaning sweet,
To deck thy brow, fair child!
The primrose, first, the emblem fit
Of budding, early youth;
The daisy in whose leaves we read
Pure innocence and truth.
The rosebud, sign of youthful charms,
We well may give to thee,
And with it join the sweet frail leaves
Of the shrinking sensitive tree.
And, tribute to thy modesty,
The violet emblem meet,--
Itself concealing, yet on all
Shedding its perfume sweet.
And for thy kind and gentle heart
We bring the jessamine,
To twine with ivy, ever green--
True friendship's sacred sign.
Thy wreath is formed--of blossoms bright
I've twined each link, and, yet,
Another flower I still must add,
The fragrant mignonnette,
Which says "However great the charms
That to thy lot may fall
Thy qualities of heart and mind
By far surpass them all."
Aye, be it thus, and ever may
This lovely wreath, as now--
Emblem of every precious gift--
Be fit to deck thy brow.
But, last and dearest, 'mid the buds
Of that bright varied lot
Must ever be, my gentle child,
The sweet forget-me-not!
MY THOUGHTS TO-NIGHT.
I sit by the fire musing,
With sad and downcast eye,
And my laden breast gives utt'rance
To many a weary sigh;
Hushed is each worldly feeling,
Dimmed is each day-dream bright--
O heavy heart, can'st tell me
Why I'm so sad to-night?
'Tis not that I mourn the freshness
Of 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 pleasure
In its high ardent heart.
Nor yet is it for those dear ones
Who've passed from earth away
That I grieve--in spirit kneeling
Above their beds of clay;
O, no! while my glance upraising
To yon calm shining sky,
My pale lips, quivering, murmur,
"They are happier than I!"
But, alas! my spirit mourns
As, weary, it looks back--
Finding naught of good or holy
On life's past barren track--
I mourn for the countless errors
That on mem'ry's page crowd on,
And sorrow for lost chances
Of good I might have done.
But, courage! I must arouse me,
The day is not yet o'er,
And I still may make atonement
Ere leaving life's last shore:
One act of meek oblation,
A tear of penance bright,
Will be counted as rare treasures
In heaven's loving sight.
THE BOY'S APPEAL.
O say, dear sister, are you coming
Forth to the fields with me?
The very air is gaily ringing
With hum of bird and bee,
And crowds of swallows now are chirping
Up in our ancient thorn,
And earth and air are both rejoicing,
On this gay summer morn.
Shall we hie unto the streamlet's side
To seek our little boat,
And, plying our oars with right good will,
Over its bright waves float?
Or shall we loll on the grassy bank
For hours dreamy, still,
To draw from its depths some silv'ry prize,
Reward of angler's skill?
I do not talk of the tempting game
The forest covers hide,
So dear to the sportsman--plovers shy,
Pheasants with eye of pride,
For I know your timid nature shrinks
From flash of fire-arm bright,
And the birds themselves hear not the din
With 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 size
I'll seek for nests of cunning shape--
I, too, must win some prize.
Then, sister, listen! squander not
These hours of precious time
With stupid book or useless work--
It is indeed a crime;
But haste with me to the wood-lands green,
Where forest warblers sing
And bees are humming--like them, too,
We must be on the wing.
THE CHILD'S DREAM.
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 wings
Of 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
away
Are 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 above
The pure soul nestles in the light of God's unbounded Love.
A GIRL'S DAY DREAM AND ITS FULFILMENT.
"Child of my love, why wearest thou
That pensive look and thoughtful brow?
Can'st gaze abroad on this world so fair
And 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 child
To 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 know
Than 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 strand
To cling to a hope, unstable as sand,
And forget the joys thy youth hath wove
In the stormy doubts of human love,
The feverish hopes and wearing pain
That 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.