Dear Anna, when I brought her veil--
Her white veil on her wedding night--
Threw o'er my thin brown hair its folds,
And, laughing, turned me to the light.
"See, Bessie, see! you wear at last
The bridal veil, foresworn for years!"
She saw my face--her laugh was hushed,
Her happy eyes were filled with tears.
With kindly haste and trembling hand
She drew away the gauzy mist:
"Forgive, dear heart!" her sweet voice said,
Her loving lips my forehead kissed.
We passed from out the searching light--
The summer night was calm and fair--
I did not see her pitying eyes,
I felt her soft hand smooth my hair.
Her tender love unlocked my heart;
'Mid falling tears at last I said:
"Foresworn, indeed, to me that veil,
Because I only love the dead!"
She stood one moment statue-still,
And, musing, spoke in undertone:
"The living love may colder grow;
The dead is safe with God alone!"
The following poem to his sister was sent to her by Whittier, with a
copy of his book, "The Supernaturalism of New England," which
consisted of poems relating to the superstition and folk-lore
prevalent in New England. It was written in 1847, and is full of early
memories and tender thoughts:--
Dear sister! while the wise and sage
Turn coldly from my playful page,
And count it strange that ripened age
Should stoop to boyhood's folly;
I know that thou wilt judge aright
Of all which makes the heart more light,
Or lends one star-gleam to the night
Of clouded melancholy.
Away with weary cares and themes!
Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams!
Leave free once more the land which teems
With wonders and romances!
Where thou, with clear discerning eyes,
Shalt rightly read the truth which lies
Beneath the quaintly-masking guise
Of wild and wizard fancies.
Lo! once again our feet we set
On still green wood-paths, twilight wet,
By lonely brooks, whose waters fret
The roots of spectral beeches;
Again the hearth fire glimmers o'er
Home's whitewashed wall and painted floor
And young eyes widening to the lore
Of faëry folks and witches.
Dear heart! the legend is not vain
Which lights that holy hearth again,
And, calling back from care and pain,
And death's funereal sadness,
Draws round its old familiar blaze
The clustering groups of happier days,
And lends to sober manhood's gaze
A glimpse of childish gladness.
And, knowing how my life hath been
A weary work of tongue and pen,
A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men,
Thou wilt not chide my turning
To con, at times, an idle rhyme,
To pluck a flower from childhood's clime,
Or listen at life's noonday chime,
For the sweet bells of Morning!