Chapter IV: Part 4

Through this awful night of sorrow,
Father, let me hear thy voice.
Teach me how to sing in anguish--
How to suffer, and rejoice.
Take me by the hand, and guide me,
Lead me in the better way.
Through this vale of storm, and tempest,
To the land of perfect day.

Strengthen me for every contest:
Let my prayer be not in vain.
I would bless thee in my sorrow--
I would glory in my pain.
Make my spirit white, for heaven!
Let my soul be purified
In the blood that flowed so freely,
From the wound in Jesus' side.

Gird my soul, oh God, for battle!
I am weak, O make me strong.
Do not let my courage falter,
Though the strife be fierce, and long.
And upon Thy hand, my Father,
Let me keep a clinging hold,
Till I cross the pearly portal,
To the city built of gold.

1869

_DISINTERRED_

[Written after the attempt of Sensation Lovers to prove that Shakespeare's plays were written by Lord Bacon.]

Lo! here's another corpse exhumed! Another Poet disinterred! Sensation cried, "Dig up the grave, And let the dust be hoed and stirred; And bring the bones of Shakespeare out! 'Twill edify the throng, no doubt.

"The Byron scandal has grown old! That rare tit-bit is flat, and stale. The throng is gaping for more food! We need a new sensation tale. Old Shakespeare sleeps too well, and sound. Tear off the shroud--dig up the ground!

"We have exhumed poor 'Raven Poe' And proved beyond the shade of doubt, _He_ saw no raven, after all. Now trot the bones of Shakespeare out! Byron, and Poe, and Shakespeare--good! Who shall we serve up next for food?"

And who, say I, oh seers of earth! What corpse comes next? I daily look To see if some sage hasn't proved That Jones, or Smith, wrote Lalla Rook! Or Blifkins lent his brains to Moore-- Who was a plagiarist, and boor.

Sensation, keep your servants out; Let them be watchful, and alert! We'll need a new discovery soon: Tell them to dig about the dirt, And tear off Keats', or Shelly's shroud, To please and edify the crowd.

1870

_A LAWYER'S ROMANCE_

Into the mellow light of the cloudless autumn day, Somehow, the vision slips, of a landscape, far away, Wherever I turn my eyes, it hovers before them still, The little, vine-wreathed cot, on the southerly slope of the hill,

The pasture at the left, the ducks a-swim in the pond, And the straight, green rows of corn, with the wheat fields just beyond, The sloping lawn on the right, that is always seeming to say To the lake that lies below, "I will meet you just half way."

And over and over the cot, from th' ground to th' mossy eaves, Cling, and twine, and clamber the vines, with their dark, green leaves; The little mimic garden, with its simple flowers a-blow, Larkspur, bleeding hearts, and the clumps of phlox, like snow;

Petunias, red and white, like drooping and fragile maids, Rose trees hanging down, with roses of many shades, Marigolds, bachelor-buttons, with clusters of evergreen, On the two trim rows of beds, with the narrow path between,

And the setting rays of the sun, lending it all a flush, That is given to sunset scenes, by the heavenly Artist's brush. It is thus it rises to-day, and hovers before my eyes; I have seen it softly lit, with the mornings' sweet surprise--

I have seen it when the dew glistened upon the grass-- In the hush of the summer noon, when the calm lake lay like glass-- In the ghostly rays o' the moon--in the quiet of the night-- But never half so fair as under that sunset light.

Ah! foolish, and weak old heart, must you live it over again? Why reopen the book, whose final page was Pain! But the picture rises before me, rises, and hovers there, And the glory of the sunset falls on the maiden's hair;

The maid, who stood in that garden ten long summers ago. Stood by the "bleeding hearts," and the clusters of phlox, like snow. Ah! musty and dusty old heart, you were younger and lighter then! Yet not young, for now you have beat, two score years and ten;

But that one summer holds the essence of all my life, The forty years before were records of toil and strife, And I opened the book again, when my holiday was o'er, And began at the page I left, and plodded on as before.

Weary of law, of work, of the dust, and heat of th' town, Ill, in body and mind, my heart went longing down To the cool, green country meadows; and I followed it one day, And there in the vine-wreathed cot, let the summer slip away;

Ay! and I let the heart I had guarded forty years-- The heart that had never been stirred by love's wild hopes and fears-- I let it slip away to the maid with amber eyes, With tresses dusky brown, and cheeks like th' sunset skies.

Ah! secret I tried to keep, ah! love I strove to hide! But in the July twilight, I lingered at her side, And, leaning by the rose tree, her tresses swept my cheek! "Ah! sweet," I cried in a tremor, "I love you--let me speak!"

And then, somehow the love I had thought to guard untold Broke loose from the fetters of silence, and gathered strength, and rolled Forth in a torrent of words; and I knelt at the maiden's feet, Crying, "Grant me a token, as yea or nay, my sweet."

And then, with a shy, sweet smile, she gave me her finger-tips, And, bolder grown, I said, as I raised them to my lips, "'Twere a lesser love than mine, that were wholly satisfied, With a touch of your fingertips, and farther than that denied."

The curtains of her eyes dropped low, and I drew her close, And over and over again kissed the sweet face like a rose. I said, "I have pleaded a case, and won it; do you see? And now I take my pay! for a lawyer must have his fee."

Ah! summer over and gone, into the echoless past! Oh! August afternoons, that drifted by too fast! Oh! rows on the quiet lake, in the blissful moonlit eves, When the harvesters sang their song, carrying home the sheaves.

I can hear it even now, the voices, strong and sweet, Over the noise, and rattle, and roar of the busy street, I can see the face of Mable, full lipped, ripe, and fair, With the amber tints in her eyes, and the dusky shades on her hair.

Into my life's September, came the beauty I missed in June, The glory lost in the morning, came in the afternoon. The dream that belongs to youth, golden--complete--sublime, I dreamed not, in the spring, but in the autumn time.

Ah! and the young heart wakes from the dream of love, and then, Suffers a little while, and dreams it over again. But never a second draught of the wine of love for me, I drank it all at the first, and shattered the cup, you see.

I woke from the golden dream when I saw _her_ on the breast Of a fair-faced, beardless youth--when I saw his red lips pressed Over and over again to the mouth, like a rose half blown, And I heard her whispered words--"My only love, my own."

Hush! censure them not! His heart she toyed with even as mine. He suffered keenly, I think, then knelt at another's shrine. And she--speak softly of her--she died: she is only dust; Died repentant--forgiven--and entered Heaven--I trust.

And I--well my years drift on, as my two-score drifted away, Only at times, this memory comes, as it came to-day, Thrilling me through and through--and I live it all once more, Though I shut the past away, and have striven to lock the door.

Have I lost all faith in woman? Nay, surely not: should we Say that every heart is false because _one_ proves to be! Because I find a worm in the petals of a rose, Shall I say that worms are coiled in every flower that blows?

Nay, there are constant woman, and women as sweet and fair As she with the amber eyes, and the shadows on her hair. But I found the wine of love so late, that when I quaffed I held none in reserve, but drank it all at a draught.

The future? I do not dread: it is neither dark nor bright. I have had my day of joy--I have had my sorrow's night. God helped me through the last--I do not know just how, But He answered when I called Him, and why should I doubt him now?

Nor mortal eye can see, nor mortal heart conceive, What He holdeth in His kingdom for the faithful that believe. But I sometimes think the dream that was broken here for me, I shall finish and complete by the shining Jasper sea.

1870

_A SUMMER DAY_

There's a gaping rent in the curtain
That longs for a needle and thread,
There's a garment that ought to be finished,
And a book that wants to be read.
There's a letter that needs to be answered,
There are clothes to fold away,
And I know these tasks are waiting,
And ought to be done to-day.

But how can I mend the curtain,
While watching this silvery cloud,
And how can I finish th' garment.
When the robin calls so loud.
And the whispering trees are telling
Such stories above my head,
That I can but lie and listen,
And the book is all unread.

If I try to write the letter,
I am sure one half the words
Will be in the curious language
Of my chattering friends, the birds.
The lilacs bloom in the sunshine,
The roses nod and smile,
And the clothes that ought to be folded
And ironed, must wait awhile.

I lie in the locust shadows,
And gaze at the summer sky,
Bidding the cares and troubles
And trials of life pass by.
The beautiful locust blossoms
Are falling about my feet,
And the dreamy air is laden
With their odors rare and sweet.

The honey-bees hum in the clover,
The grasses rise and fall,
The robin stops and listens,
As he hears the brown thrush call.
The humming-bird sings to me softly,
The butterfly flits away--
Oh, what could be sweeter than living,
This beautiful summer day!

1869

_SONG AND MAID_

A poet toiled over a song, for the maid
Who had plighted her troth to him.
And he leaned, and wrote, in the gathering shade,
Till his eyes were dim.

But the maiden strolled on the distant beach, And listed another's tender speech.

The poet sang of her love-lit eye,
So softly, and deeply blue;
How its soulful glance--half arch, half shy,
He only knew.

But the maid's blue eyes were shedding their light On the face of a tall, dark man, that night.

He sang of her hand, so white, and fair,
And soft as a hand could be.
"And the ring," he sang, "that is gleaming there
Binds her to me."

But the maid to her tall companion said, "This ring? 'tis the gift of a friend, now dead."

He sang of her ripe and dewy lips--
"They are roses before they blow,
And the taste of the nectar that from them drips
I only know."

But the maid, as she walked in the moonlight mist, Lifted her face, and was lovingly kissed.

He sang of her voice, "It is soft and clear
As the voice of a gentle dove.
So tender, that I alone can hear
Her words of love."

But the maiden whispered to one by the sea, "I love thee, darling, and only thee."

Ah, poet! finish your last light strain:
Ah, maid! shall we give you praise, or blame?
You are wringing a heart, with bitter pain,
Yet helping to laurel a brow with fame.

For out of the depths of a master woe,
And through the valley of dark despair,
The soul of a singer must grope, and go,
Ere he wear the purple true poets wear.

_ASLEEP_

"Come closer," she said, "my sister,
For I can not see your face.
The day grows dim, and the shadows grim,
Are gathering on apace.
I am glad that the night is coming:
I am weary, and want to rest.
What! do you weep, that I fall asleep
Leaning upon your breast?

"Oh, Sister, I am _so_ tired:
How tired you can not know.
And a jarring pain, in my weary brain,
Beats like a cruel blow.
I think it will all have vanished,
After I sleep awhile.
How sweetly I rest, lying here on your breast.
In the warmth of your loving smile.

"Such a beautiful dream, my sister,
I dreamed while I slept last night.
I thought he was true: and he came with you,
And kissed me in love's delight.
And he said--. But I am so weary,
I will sleep ere I tell the rest."
But the sister wept, for the maiden slept
In the sleep of death, on her breast.

1869

_TWO COUNTS_

If I count my life by the ticking of clocks,
In the old methodical way,
If I count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks,
If I figure it out by the ceaseless flocks
Of hours that make a day,
If I count from the annual calendar,
And trust to the measured years in there,
Well, then I have turned, we'll say,
But a notch, or two, on the wheel of time;
I am still in the flush of my youths' glad prime;
My life is new,
As the count will say.
I am scarcely through
With the opening play.
I am, in truth.
In the flush of youth,
If I trust to ticking and striking of clocks,
And count by the years, and the years' twelve blocks.

If I count my life by the beat, throb, beat,
Of the weary heart in my breast,
If I count by the aims that have met defeat,
And the vain, vain search for rest,
If I count by tears,
And by haunting fears,
By hopes that were all in vain,
By dear trusts shattered,
And good ships battered,
And lost on the treacherous main,
By faith unfounded,
And love death-wounded,
If I reckon it thus, why then
Counting this way, I have lived, we'll say,
Full three-score years, and ten.

1870

_THE WATCHER_

"I think I hear the sound of horses' feet. Beating upon the gravelled avenue. Go to the window that looks on the street! He would not let me die, alone, I knew!" Back to the couch the patient watcher passed. And said, "It is the wailing of the blast."

She turned upon her couch, and seeming, slept, The long, dark lashes, shadowing her cheek. And on, and on, the weary moments crept, When suddenly the watcher heard her speak, "I think I hear the sound of horses' hoofs!" And answered, "'Tis the rain, upon the roofs."

Unbroken silence: quiet, deep, profound. The restless sleeper turns. "How dark! how late! What is it that I hear--that trampling sound? I think there is a horseman at the gate!" The watcher turns away her eyes, tear-blind. "It is the shutter, beating in the wind."

The dread night passed. The patient clock ticked on.
The weary watcher moved not from her place.
The gray, dun shadows of the early dawn,
Caught sudden glory, from the sleeper's face.
"He comes! my love! I knew he would!" she cried,
And, smiling sweetly in her slumbers, died.

1870

_LIFE AND DEATH_

Three days agone, and she was here:
Her light step on the stair was springing.
Her sweet voice fell upon my ear;
(She mocked the thrushes in her singing.)
The billows of her long, bright hair
Fell round her, in a golden splendor.
Her face was young and fresh and fair;
Her eyes were innocent and tender.

Her presence filled the house: each room
Breathed of her pure and sweet existence.
She was like some rare plant in bloom,
Its fragrance reaching through the distance.
Here was her ribbon--there her book,
Beyond, her wreath, or faded flower.
A step, a voice, a laugh, a look,
Told of her presence, hour by hour.

"How strange is life!" I said, "From naught
God fashioned out this glowing creature.
Endowed with motion, feeling thought--
Perfect in symmetry, and feature.
Sweeter than any opening rose,
All grace and beauty hangs about her.
Though every flower were left that blows,
Earth would be bare and bleak, without her."

Three days agone! ay! life is strange,
But death is stranger, vaster, deeper.
It brings us tears, and gloom, and change.
_She_ was God's sheaf, and Death His reaper.
Three days! and now no voice is heard--
No light step on the stair is bounding.
In vain the tuneful-throated bird
Listens to hear her answer sounding.

I cannot find her, anywhere!
How vast and strange the mystic power,
That leaves but one soft strand of hair,
Of all that golden, shining shower.
In door, and out, in every place,
I search and seek; oh, vain endeavor!
The voice, the laugh, the form, the face,
Have vanished from the earth forever.

A spot of ground, a fresh-turned sod,
Hides what was beautiful and mortal.
Her spirit (fairer still) to God,
And life eternal, crossed the portal.
Frailer than any opening rose,
The winds of earth blew cold about her.
Fairer than any flower that grows,
Heaven was not complete without her.

1872

_AN AUTUMN REVERIE_

Through all the weary, hot midsummer time,
My heart has struggled with its awful grief.
And I have waited for these autumn days,
Thinking the cooling winds would bring relief.
For I remembered how I loved them once,
When all my life was full of melody.
And I have looked and longed for their return,
Nor thought but they would seem the same, to me.

The fiery summer burned itself away,
And from the hills, the golden autumn time
Looks down and smiles. The fields are tinged with brown--
The birds are talking of another clime.
The forest trees are dyed in gorgeous hues,
And weary ones have sought an earthy tomb.
But still the pain tugs fiercely at my heart--
And still my life is wrapped in awful gloom.

The winds I thought would cool my fevered brow,
Are bleak, and dreary; and they bear no balm.
The sounds I thought would soothe my throbbing brain,
Are grating discords; and they cannot calm
This inward tempest. Still, it rages on.
My soul is tossed upon a troubled sea,
I find no pleasure in the olden joys--
The autumn is not as it used to be.

I hear the children shouting at their play!
Their hearts are happy, and they know not pain.
To them the day brings sunlight, and no shade.
And yet I would not be a child again.
For surely as the night succeeds the day.
So surely will their mirth turn into tears.
And I would not return to happy hours,
If I must live again these weary years.

I would walk on, and leave it all behind:
will walk on; and when my feet grow sore,
The boatman waits--his sails are all unfurled--
He waits to row me to a fairer shore.
My tired limbs shall rest on beds of down,
My tears shall all be wiped by Jesus' hand;
My soul shall know the peace it long hath sought--
A peace too wonderful to understand.

1868

_TWO LIVES_

An infant lies in her cradle bed: The hands of sleep, on her eyelids fall. The moments pass, with a noiseless tread, And the clock on the mantle counts them all. The infant wakes, with a wailing cry, But she does not heed, how her life slips by.

A child is sporting, in careless play: She rivals the birds with her mellow song: The clock, unheeded, ticks away, And counts the moments that drift along. But the child is chasing the butterfly, And she does not heed how her life drifts by.

A maiden stands at her lover's side, In the tender light of the setting sun. Onward and onward the moments glide, And the old clock counts them, one by one. But the maiden's bridal is drawing nigh, And she does not heed how her life drifts by.

A song of her youth the matron sings, And she dreameth a dream, and her eye is wet. And backward and forward the pendulum swings, In the clock that never has rested yet. And the matron smothers a half-drawn sigh, As she thinks how her life is drifting by.

An old crone sits in her easy chair; Her head is dropped on her aged breast. The clock on the mantle ticketh there-- The clock that is longing now for rest. And the old crone smiles, as the moments fly, And thinks how her life is drifting by.

A shrouded form, in a coffin bed-- A waiting grave, in the fallow ground: The moments pass with a noiseless tread, But the clock on the mantle makes no sound. The lives of the two have gone for ay, And they do not heed, how the time drifts by.

1869

_IN MEMORIUM_

(Miss Jennie Blanchard, aged 21 )

Across the sodden field we gaze, To woodlands, painted gold and brown; To hills that hide in purple haze, And proudly wear the autumn's crown. Oh, lavish autumn! fair, we know, And yet we cannot deem her so.

The blossoms had their little day; The grasses, and the green-hung trees. They lived, grew old, and passed away. And yet, not satisfied with these, The cruel autumn could not pass Without this last fell stroke: alas!

"Alas," we cry, because God's ways Seem so at variance with our own, And grieving through the nights and days, We see not that His love was shown In gathering to the "Harvest Home," Our lost one, from the grief to come.

Oh, Tears! she will not have to weep! Oh, Woes! she will not have to bear! For her, who fell so soon asleep, No furrowed face, no whitened hair. And yet _we_ would have given her _these_, In lieu of heavenly victories.

How weak the strongest mortal love! How selfish in its tenderness! How God's angelic host above Must wonder at our blind distress! _We_ see her still grave, dark and dim, And _they_ see only Heaven and _Him_.

Perpetual youth! oh, priceless boon! Forever youthful: never old! How can we think she died too soon? What though life's story _was_ half told? Wiser than all earth's seers, to-day, Is this fair soul, that passed away.

Magician, sage, philosopher, With all their vast brain-wealth combined, Are only babes, compared with her: This soul, that left the "things behind," And, "reaching to the things before," Gained God, through Christ, forevermore.

October, 1870

_MY LOVE_

My love is fair as the morn;
Yes, fair as the summer morning,
When with fold on fold of red, and gold,
The sun in the east gives warning,
And a soft, rare light, not dim nor bright,
O'er hill and mountain lingers;
And flower, and vine with jewels shine--
Bedecked by the fairie's fingers.

My love has eyes like the clouds,
That are dyed with the autumn's splendor,
So darkly blue, where her soul looks through--
So truthful and so tender.
When their light is hid by the snowy lid,
My heart seems lost in shadow.
And her glance will chase the gloom from my face,
Like sunlight on a meadow.

My love has cheeks like a rose--
Yes, like a rose in blossom,
And a flake of snow is her polished brow,
And a drift of snow is her bosom;
And her hair sweeps down, half gold, half brown,
Like a silken veil, to cover
The matchless grace of her form and face,
From the burning eyes of her lover.

My love has a voice like a thrush--
Yes, like a thrush when singing.
And the wondering lark cries, "Listen! hark!"
When he hears her glad tone ringing.
Oh, she is fair, beyond compare;
And how her sweet face flushes,
When I whisper low a tale we know--
And the rose is shamed by her blushes.

1871

_THE FROST FAIRY_

All day the trees were moaning,
For the leaves that they had lost.
All day they creaked and trembled,
And the naked branches tossed,
And shivered in the north wind,
As he hurried up and down,
Over hill-tops, bleak and cheerless,
Over meadows, bare, and brown.

"Oh, my green and tender leaflets.
Oh, my fair buds, lost, and gone!"
So they moaned through all the daytime,
So, they groaned, till night came on.
And the hoar-frost lurked, and listened,
To the wailing, sad refrain.
And he whispered, "Wait--be patient--
I will cover you again.

"I will clothe you in new garments:
I will deck you, ere the light,
In a sheen of spotless glory,
In a robe of purest white.
You shall wear the matchless mantle,
That the good frost-fairy weaves."
And the bare trees listened, wondered--
And forgot their fallen leaves.

And the quaint and silent fairy,
Backward, forward, through the gloom,
Wove the matchless, glittering mantle;
Spun the frost-thread, on her loom.
And the bare trees talked together--
Talked in whispers, soft, and low,
As the good and patient fairy
Moved her shuttle to and fro.

And lo! when the sudden glory
Of the morning crept abroad,
All the trees were clothed in grandeur;
All the twiglets robed and shod
In the glittering, spotless garments,
That the sunshine decked with gems;
And the trees forgot their sorrow,
'Neath their robes and diadems.

1870.

_THE SUMMONS_

I think the leaf would sooner
Be the first to break away,
Than to hang alone in the orchard
In the bleak November day.
And I think the fate of the flower
That falls in the midst of bloom
Is sweeter than if it lingered
To die in the autumn's gloom.

Some glowing, golden morning
In the heart of the summer time,
As I stand in the perfect vigor
And strength of my youth's glad prime;
When my heart is light and happy,
And the world seems bright to me,
I would like to drop from this earth-life,
As a green leaf drops from the tree.

Someday, when the golden glory
Of June is over the earth,
And the birds are singing together
In a wild, mad strain of mirth,
When the skies are as clear and cloudless
As the skies of June can be,
I would like to have the summons
Sent down from God to me.

I would not wait for the furrows--
For the faded eyes and hair;
But pass out swift and sudden,
Ere I grow heart-sick with care;
I would break some morn in my singing--
Or fall in my springing walk,
As a full-blown flower will sometimes
Drop, all a-bloom, from the stalk.

And so, in my youth's glad morning, I would like to hear the summons, That must come, sometime, from God. I would pass from the earth's perfection To the endless June above; From the fullness of living and loving, To the noon of Immortal Love.

1873

_THREE YEARS OLD_

Written upon Eva Orton's third birthday.

A robin up in the linden-tree
Merrily sings this lay:
"Somebody sweet is three years old--
Three years old to-day."
Somebody's bright blue eyes look up
Through tangled curls of gold,
And two red lips unclose to say--
"To-day I am free years old."

Clouds were over the sky this morn,
But now they are sailing away;
Clouds could never obscure the sun
On somebody sweet's birthday.
Bluest of skies and greenest of trees,
Sunlight and birds and flowers,
These are Nature's birthday gifts
To this sweet pet of ours.

The pantry is brimming with cakes and creams
For somebody's birthday ball.
Papa and mamma bring their gifts,
But their _love_ is better than all.
Ribbons and sashes, and dainty robes,
Gifts of silver and gold,
Will fade and rust as the days go by,
But their _hearts_ will not grow cold.

Then laugh in the sunlight, somebody sweet--
Little flower of June!
You have nothing to do with care,
For life is in perfect tune.
Loving hearts and sheltering arms
Shall keep old care away
For many a year, from somebody sweet,
Who is three years old to-day.

Milwaukee, June 26, 1873

_THE DIFFERENCE_

Up in the cozy chamber,
Where, on the snowy bed
The dress, and the pearls, and the new false curls,
For the morrow's use were spread,
The bride-elect and her mother
Were sitting before the grate,
Talking over the days gone by,
And planning the future state.

"I really am quite well suited,"
Said Minnie, "with my outfit--
Jane says Kit Somers trousseau,
Is nothing compared with it.
That her laces are imitation,
And her bonnet a perfect fright,
And she says I'll wholly eclipse her
In everybody's sight.

"And she isn't to make the tour,
But only to visit awhile.
I declare I'd never be married
If I couldn't do it in style.
Jane says her jewels, though splendid,
With mine can never compare:
I tell you I do love Harry,
When I look at this solitaire.

"And I think he's a darling, mother,
For he's going to let me board,
At least he will, he says, until
He finds that he can afford
To purchase that house of Mosleys,
That splendid brown stone front.
I wouldn't have anything humbler.
And Harry says _he_ won't.

"My presents are perfectly splendid,
Much finer than Kit's, I know,
I think that's half of a wedding
To have such things to show.
If we get that house of Mosleys,
What a brilliant life we'll live.
Such people as I'll have throng it--
Such parties as I will give.

"I mean to just _queen it_, mother,
In society everywhere,
And my title of Belle of the City
I shall continue to wear.
I don't believe that a woman
By marriage should be tied down
To wearing a smile for her husband
And for all other men a frown.

"I mean to dress better than ever,
And be just as merry and free.
Children! the troublesome wretches!
No ma'am, not any for me.
I know I'd be cross and unhappy,
With children to tease, and annoy.
A joy, you say, to be mother,
Well, I will be spared that joy."

Across the hall in their bedroom
A hale old couple sat,
Minnie's grandfather and mother,
Having a good night chat.
"So, the last of the children is going,"
Grandmother said, and sighed,
"Minnie, (we named her Mary,)
To-morrow will be a bride.

"It will be a great occasion,
All glitter and glow and shine,
A nineteenth century wedding,
Not much like yours, and mine.
A few good friends were with us,
When we were married, John,
They came to see us united--
Not to see what the bride had on.

"I wore a snowy muslin,
And a white rose in my hair,
No silks nor gems, nor diadems--
And yet you thought me fair.
We stood in the broad cool kitchen,
On the white and sanded floor,
And a breeze from the odorous orchard,
Looked in at the open door.

"The minister read the service
That made us one for life,
And I was no longer a maiden
But a loved and cherished wife.
You took me home on the morrow!
Six miles, in a one-horse chaise;
Folks didn't race over the country
'Touring' in those old days.

"Our house was a tiny cabin
That would just hold two, you said,
But ere a year, you found, my dear
There was room for three, instead.
Ah me! that wonderful baby!
'Twas a moment of perfect bliss
When I held up the pink faced darling
For his father's tender kiss.

"Then came a dear little daughter!
And then more boys and girls
Till you built on a wing to the cabin
To cover their sunny curls.
There was never a happier woman
In all of the land I know,
Singing away at my labor--
Watching the children grow.

"I had my beaux and lovers,
When I was a girl; but when
I became your bride I put aside
All thoughts of other men.
Lover, and king, and husband,
And friend, I found in you,
And you repaid my devotion,
By being kind, and true.

"Ah well! the world keeps changing
And weddings have changed with the rest,
People go only to comment
And see how the bride is drest.
Girls wed houses and titles
Instead of men as of old,
And babies are out of the fashion
And all that glitters is gold.

"Perhaps these times are better,
Though I cannot think them so,
But I am a poor old woman.
And not supposed to know."
And grandmother finished her musings
With a meaning shake of the head
Over nineteenth century folly.
And sighed, and went to bed.

1872

_LOVES EXTRAVAGANCE_

Could I but measure my strength, by my love,
Were I as strong, as my heart's love is true,
I would pull down the stars, from the heavens above,
And weave them all into a garland for you.
And brighter, and better, your jewels should be
Than any proud queen's, that e'r dwelt o'er the sea.
Ay! richer and rarer, your gems, love, should be
Than any rare jewels that come from the sea.

I would gather the beautiful, delicate green
From the dress of the spring--with the heaven's soft blue,
And never from east land, to west land were seen
Such wonderful robes, as I'd fashion for you.
And I'd snatch the bright rays of the sun in my hand
And braid you a girdle, love, strand over strand.
Ay! one by one, catch the bright rays in my hand
And braid them, and twine them, all strand over strand.

I would gather the amber, the red and gold dyes,
That glimmer and glow, in the autumn sunset,
And weave you a mantle; and pull from the skies
The rainbow to trim it. Ah Love! never yet
Was any proud princess, from east to the west
So peerlessly jeweled--so royally drest.
Never daughter of princes, in east land or west,
So decked in rare jewels, so gorgeously drest.

And I'd make you a vail, from the rare golden haze,
That Indian Summer spreads over the lea.
And trim it with dew! Queens should envy and praise
Your matchless apparel, ah darling, but see--
My strength is unequal to what I would do!
I have only this little low cottage, for you.
Nay! I can not accomplish the thing I would do,
And I've only this cot and a warm heart for you.

1870

_YOU WILL FORGET ME_

You will forget me: the years are so tender--
They bind up the wounds which we think are so deep;
This dream of our youth will fade out as the splendor
Fades from the sky, when the sun sinks to sleep:
The clouds of forgetfulness, over and over,
Will banish the last rosy colors away;
And th' fingers of Time will weave garlands to cover
The scar which you think is a life-mark to-day.

You will forget me:--will thank me for saying
The words which you think are so pointed with pain,
Time loves a new lay; and the dirge he is playing
Will change for you soon to a livelier strain.
I shall pass from your life, I shall pass out forever,
And the hours we have spent, will be sunk in the past.
Youth buries its dead: grief kills seldom, or never,
And forgetfulness covers all sorrows at last.

You will forget me; the one thing you covet
Now, above all things will soon seem no prize:
And the heart which is not in your keeping, to prove it
True or untrue, will lose worth in your eyes.
The one drop to-day, which you deem only wanting
To make life a joy, will be lost in Time's stream;
You will forget; and the ghost that is haunting
The aisles of your heart will pass out with the dream.