Chapter 18

How should I know, That those bright eyes of thine Would haunt me yet? And through Grief's dark cloud shine, With that same glow? That thy sweet smile, so full of trust and love, Should, beaming still, a priceless solace prove? How should I know?

How should I know That one so good and fair, Would condescend To spare a thought, or care, For one so low? I dared not hope such bliss could be in store;-- How dare I who had known no love before? How should I know?

But now I know-- Too late, alas! the prize Can ne'er be mine, Yet do I hug the pain, And bless the blow, Knowing I love, and am loved in return, Is bliss undying whilst Life's lamp shall burn. Yes, now I know.

On the Banks of the Calder.

On Calder's green banks I stroll sadly and lonely, The flowers are blooming, the birds singing sweet, The river's low murmur seems whispering only, The name of the laddie I came here to meet. He promised yestre'en, by the thorn tree in blossom, He'd meet me to-night as the sun sank to rest, And a sprig of May blossom he put on my bosom, As his lips to my hot cheeks he lovingly prest.

Oh, where is my laddie? Oh, where is my Johnnie? Oh, where is my laddie, so gallant and free? He's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny, Oh, Johnnie,--my Johnnie,--I'm waiting for thee.

The night's growing dark and the shadows are eerie, The stars now peep out from the blue vault above; Oh, why does he tarry? oh, where is my dearie? Oh, what holds him back from the arms of his love? I know he's not false, by his kind eyes so blue,-- And his tones were sincere when he called me his own; Oh, he promised so fairly he'd ever be true,-- But why does he leave me to wander alone?

Oh, where is my laddie? Oh, where is my Johnnie? Oh, where is my laddie so gallant and free? He's winsome and witty, his face is so bonny, Oh, Johnnie,--my Johnnie, I'm waiting for thee.

The moon now is up,--the owl hoots in the wood, The trees sigh and moan, and the water runs black; The tears down my cheeks roll a sorrowful flood,-- And my heart throbs to tell me he'll never come back. Oh, woe, woe is me! Did he mean to betray? Must my ruin the price of his perfidy be? No, the river shall hide me and bear me away; Cold Calder receive me, I'm coming to thee.

Oh, where is her laddie? Oh, where is her Johnnie? Oh, where is her laddie that treated her so? But the voice of the river shall haunt him for ever, And his base heart shall never more happiness know.

Lines on Receiving a Bunch of Wild Hyacinths by Post.

Sweet, drooping, azure tinted bells, How dear you are; Bringing the scent of shady dells, To me from far; Telling of spring and gladsome sunny hours,-- Nature's bright jewels!=-heart-refreshing flowers!

Oh, for a stroll when opening day Silvers the dew, Kissing the buds, whilst zephyrs play As though they knew Their gentle breath was needed, just to shake Your slumbering beauties, and to bid you wake.

Far from the moilding town and trade, How sweet to spend An hour amid the misty glade, And find a friend In every tiny blossom, and to lie, And dream of Him whose love can never die.

Ye are Gael's messengers, sent here To make us glad; Mute, and yet eloquent, to cheer The heart that's sad; To turn our thoughts from sordid earthly gains, To that bright home where peace for ever reigns.

How dare we murmur, when around On every side, Such proofs of His great love abound, O'er the world wide? Faith cannot die within these hearts of ours, If we but learn the lessons of the flowers.

Thanks to the one whose kindly heart Was moved to send This gift, when we were far apart, To cheer a friend. Sweet meditation now my mind employs; A pleasure pure, and one which never cloys.

November's Here.

Dullest month of all the year,-- Suicidal atmosphere, Everything is dark and drear, Filling nervous minds with fear, Skies are seldom ever clear, Fogs are ever hov'ring near,-- 'Tis a heavy load to bear.

Were it not that life is dear, We should wish to disappear, For it puts us out of gear.

But in vain we shed the tear, We must still cling to the rear Of the year that now is near.

Though our eyes begin to blear, With fogs thick enough to shear, And we feel inclined to swear, At the month that comes to smear All things lovely, all things dear; We must bear and yet forbear.

But some thoughts our spirits cheer, Christmas time will soon be here, Then at thee we'll scoff and jeer, Smoke our pipes and drink our beer,-- Sit until brave chanticleer Tells us that the morn is here.

Do thy worst, November drear! We can stand it, never fear,-- Christmas time will soon be here.

Mary.

My Mary's as sweet as the flowers that grow, By the side of the brooklet that runs near her cot; Her brow is as fair as the fresh fallen snow, And the gleam of her smile can be never forgot. Her figure is lithe and as graceful I ween As was Venus when Paris awarded the prize, She's the wiles of a fairy,--the step of a queen, And the light of true love's in her bonny brown eyes.

To see was to love her,--to love was to mourn,-- For her heart was as fickle as April days When you'd given her all and asked some return, You got but a taste of her false winsome ways. You never could tell, though you knew her so well, That her sweet fascinations were nothing but lies, Like a fool you loved on when of hope there was none And your heart sought relief in her bonny brown eyes.

Yet 'tis sad to relate, though unhappy my fate, I would sacrifice all that on earth I hold dear, If she would but consent to be true, and content, With the heart that is faithful when distant or near. Through pleasure and pain we together again, May never commingle our smiles and our sighs, But when sleeping or waking, I struggle in vain, To forget the sweet maid with the bonny brown eyes.

Oh, Mary, my love! with the coo of the dove, I would woo thee to win thee, and ever to live, Where thy bright loving face and thy figure of grace, Could surround me with joys that none other can give. Oh, say but a word, and I'll fly like a bird, To the one whom my heart will beat for till it dies, Bid me come to my home, bid me come, bid me come, And bask in the light of thy bonny brown eyes.

When Cora Died.

Bells ring out a joyful sound, Old and young alike seem gay; One more year has gone its round, Again we greet a New Year's Day. Whilst to some they tell of cheer, Other hearts may grief betide, For 'twas in the glad New Year When our darling Cora died.

Like a snowdrop, pure and fair, She had blossomed in our home; Her we nursed with tender care, Lest Death's blighting frost should come. And we prayed to keep her here, But our pleading was denied;-- Early in the glad New Year, Little darling Cora died.

Death had taken some before, Some from whom 'twas hard to part; And their voices now no more, Come to cheer the longing heart. In that one frail blossom dear, Centered all our hope and pride; Alas! Then came the sad New Year, When our darling Cora died.

Since that time the pealing bells Wake sad echoes in the heart; And the grief that in us dwells Makes the tears unbidden start. Though they ring so loud and clear, Flinging gladness far and wide, They to me recall the year, When our darling Cora died.

The Violet.

Little simple violet, Glittering with dewy wet, Hidden by protecting grass All unheeded we should pass Were it not the rich perfume, Leads us on to find the bloom Which so modestly does dwell, Sweetly scenting all the dell.

Simple little violet;-- Lessons I shall ne'er forget By thy modest mien were taught,-- Rich in peace,--with wisdom fraught. Oft I've laid me down to rest, With thy blossoms on my breast; Screen'd from noontide's sunny flood, By some monarch of the wood.

I have thought and dreamed of thee, Clad in such simplicity; Yet so rich in fragrance sweet, That exhales from thy retreat; And I've seen the gaudy flower Blest alone with beauty's dower;-- Have looked,--admired,--then bid them go,-- Violet,--I love thee so.

Rival, thou hast none to fear, For to me thou art most dear;-- Buttercups and daisies vie, 'With thy charms to please the eye, Roses red and lillies white, All enchanting to the sight; Yield me joys sincere, but yet Thou'rt my favorite,--Violet.

Repentant.

Oh lend me thy hand in the darkness, Lead me once more to the light, Bear with my folly and weakness, Point me the way to do right. Long have I groped in the shadow Of error, temptation and doubt, In the maze I've strayed hither and thither, Vainly seeking to find a way out.

When I grasp thy firm hand in the darkness, Courage takes place of my fear; No more do I shudder and tremble, When I know that my loved one is near. From sorrow and trouble, oh, lead me;-- From dangers that sorely affright, Till at last every terror shall leave me, And I rest in thine own loving light.

Rest! Aye, rest! If I have thy forgiveness, If thy strong arm about me is twined; Let the past, like a horrible vision, Be for ever cast out of thy mind. When I wilfully all my vows slighted, And sought joy in a glittering sin, I found but two lives that were blighted, Two hearts filled with ruin within.

Oh, take me again to thy bosom, With a kiss, tho' it be on my brow; And forgive one who wayward and sinful, Ne'er knew how she loved thee till now. And keep me away from the darkness, Let thy hand lead me on evermore, Let me cling to thee, bless thee, and love thee, As no loved one was e'er loved before.

Sunset.

Last eve the sun went down Like a globe of glorious fire; Into a sea of gold I watched the orb expire. It seemed the fitting end For the brightness it had shed, And the cloudlets he had kissed Long lingered over head.

All vegetation drooped, As if with pleasure faint: The lily closed its cup To guard 'gainst storm and taint. The cool refreshing dew Fell softly to the earth, All lovely things to cheer, And call more beauties forth.

And as I sat and thought On Nature's wond'rous plan, I felt with some regret, How small a thing is man. However bright he be, His efforts are confined, Yet maybe, if he will, Leave some rich fruits behind.

The sun that kissed the flowers, And made the earth look gay, Was culling, through the hours, Rich treasures on his way. And when the day was dead, His stored up riches fell, And to the moon arose Incense from hill and dell.

And when our span of life Is ended, will it be Through such a glorious death We greet Eternity? What have we said or done In all the long years passed! And may not such as me, Forgotten, die at last?

Poetry and Prose.

Do you remember the wood, love, That skirted the meadow so green; Where the cooing was heard of the stock-dove, And the sunlight just glinted between. The trees, that with branches entwining Made shade, where we wandered in bliss, And our eyes with true love-light were shining,-- When you gave me the first loving kiss?

The ferns grew tall, graceful and fair, But none were so graceful as you; Wild flow'rs in profusion were there, But your eyes were a lovelier blue; And the tint on your cheek shamed the rose, And your brow as the lily was white, And your curls, bright as gold, when it glows, In the crucible, liquid and bright.

And do you remember the stile, Where so cosily sitting at eve, Breathing forth ardent love-vows the while, We were only too glad to believe? And the castles we built in the air, Oh! what glorious structures were they! No temple all earth was so fair,-- But alas! they all vanished away.

And do you remember the time, When cruel fate forced us apart, When with resignation sublime We obeyed, though with pain in each heart. Then years dragged their wearisome round, And we ne'er again met as of yore,-- But we did meet at last and we found, Things were not as they had been before.

You'd a child on your rough sunburned arm, And your husband had one on his knee, And I had my own little swarm, For I was the father of three. And I know we both thought of the days When love and romance filled each heart, Now, we both have our children to raise,-- You're washing,--I'm driving a cart.

Years Ago.

Annie I dreamed a strange dream last night, At my bedside, I dreamed, you stood clad in white; Your dark curly hair 'round your snow-white brow,-- (Are those locks as raven and curly now?) And those rosebud lips, which in days lang syne, I have kissed and blest, because they were mine. And thine eyes soft light, Shone as mellow and bright, As it did years ago,-- Years ago.

And I fancy I heard the soft soothing sound Of thy voice, that sweet melody breathed all around, Whilst enraptured I gazed, and once more the sweet smile, Made sunshine, my sorrowing heart to beguile, And thy milkwhite hands stroked my heated brow;-- (Oh! what would I give could I feel them now!) But alas! Woe is me! No more can it be, As it was years ago,-- Years ago.

I awoke with a gnawing pain at my heart, The vision had vanished,--but oh, the smart Of the wound, which no time can ever heal, Was a torment, which only lost souls can feel. Yet in spite of the pain, the woe, the despair, I dote, as I look on a lock of dark hair, That I culled from the head, Of the loveliest maid; Many long years ago,-- Years ago.

Will fate ever bring us together again? Will my heart never know a surcease from pain? Are the dark locks I worshipped, now mingled with grey? Has Time stolen brightness and beauty away? I care not,--for years have but made thee more dear; But my longing is vain, Thou wilt ne'er come again. Lost,--lost,--years ago,-- Years ago.

Somebody's.

Oh, isn't it nice to be somebody's?-- Somebody's darling and pet, To be shrined in the heart of a dear one, Whose absence fills soul with regret? To be dreamed of, and longed for, and courted, As the Queen whom his heart holds in thrall,-- As the one--the great one, priceless jewel, That outweighs and outvalues them all?

Oh,--I'd rather my head should be resting, On the breast of the man that I love; And my hand in his strong grasp be nestling, And bask in the light of his love:-- I would rather,--far rather, my darling Should be loving, and faithful, and brave, Than be titled, and wealthy, and fickle;-- E'en though poverty held him a slave.

Oh, my heart yearns for one that is noble,-- In mind, not in riches or birth, Who would love me, and value my love too, Then my lot would be heaven on earth. But where, alas, where shall I find him? This man, that my heart longs for so? This idol I picture and dream of,-- Does he live? I'm inclined to say, no.

He is merely a fanciful hero, That my heart has pictured so fair: I must stoop from my realm of wild fancy, And take what may fall to my share. Some plain, honest, working mechanic, May be the prize I may call mine, But if shaped like a man he'll be better, Nor be left lonely, without Valentine.

Claude.

I named him Claude, 'twas a strange conceit, 'Twas a name that no relatives ever bore; Yet there lingered around it a mem'ry sweet, Of a face and a voice I miss evermore.

I was pacing the deck of a captive ship, That was straining its cables to get away, From the parched up town, and its crowded slip, To its home on the wave and its life in the spray.

When I saw the beautiful, sorrowful dame,-- And never, oh, never, shall I forget The sweet chord struck as she spoke the name, That thrilled through my being and lingers yet.

'Twas a winsome woman with raven hair, And a lovely face, and a beaming eye, With a smile that of joy and sorrow had share, And her form had the charms for which sculptors vie.

I never had seen such a lovely hand, As the one that she pressed to her snowy brow; And her parted lips, showed a glistening band, Of pearly teeth in an even row.

A fragrant scent like a rose's breath, Hung round her and seemed of herself a part, And a bouquet of lillies as pale as death, Drooped sadly above her beating heart.

She only uttered the one word, "Claude," But oh! 'twas so touchingly, sweetly said;-- A volume of grief expressed in a word, As she stedfastly gazed through the void overhead.

Then I noticed the sombre garments she wore, And I knew the grim reaper had gathered her flower 'Twas the sense of the heart-crushing sorrow she bore, Invested that name with such marvellous power.

She went ashore, and we sailed away, 'Twas the first and the only time ever we met, But my memory limns her as lovely to-day, As she was on that day I can never forget.

Months after, my baby boy came unto me, And I gave him the name she had breathed in her sigh, He was fair and sweet as the bloom on the tree, Yet he never felt mine, though I could not tell why.

But that musical note floated round in the air,-- "Claude!--Claude!" sang the zephyrs that softly sped by, And his eyes had a far-a way look, as if there, Far beyond, he could see what I failed to descry.

One eve, in the gloaming, I hushed him to rest, And the trees whispered "Claude" as they waved overhead, He smiled as he nestled more close to my breast,-- And I wept,--for I knew that my darling was dead.

All on a Christmas Morning.

The wind it blew cold, and the ice was thick, Deeper and deeper the snowdrifts grew; A young mother lay in her cottage, sick,-- Her needs were many, her comforts few. Clasped to her breast was a newborn child, Unknowing, unmindful of weal or woe; And away, far away, in the tempest wild, Was a husband and father, kneedeep in the snow. All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

The lamp burned low, and the fire was dead, And the snow sifted in through each crevice and crack: As she tossed and turned in her lowly bed, And murmured, "Good Lord, bring my husband back." The clocks in the city had told the hour With a single stroke, for young was the day But no swelling note from the loftiest tower, Could reach that lone cot where a mother lay. All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

High on the moorland that crowned the hill, Bewildered, benumbed, midst the snow, so deep, Fighting for life with a desperate will, Lost,--wearied and worn, and oppressed with sleep, Was the husband and father, with grief almost wild, Bearing cordials and medicine safely bestowed, That he'd been to obtain for his wife and child;-- Then exhausted he sank.--And it snowed,--and it snowed. All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

The sun arose on a world so white, That glistened and sparkled beneath his ray: And the children's faces looked just as bright, As they cried, "What a glorious Christmas day!" In a lowly cot lay a stiff white form,-- And all was still, save a pitiful wail;-- No more should that mother fear sickness or storm;-- Together, two spirits sped through the dark vale. All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

Friends who were coming to bring good cheer, Found a young babe sucking a cold white breast. Noiselessly, reverently, gathering near, The orphan to full hearts was lovingly pressed. The parents were laid side by side in the grave, And the babe grew in beauty of face and of form; And they still call her Snowdrop, the name that they gave,-- Sweet Snowdrop,--the frail little flower of the storm. All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

Once Upon a Time.

When dull November's misty shroud, All Nature's charms depress, Flinging a damp, dark, deadening cloud, O'er each heart's joyousness. Our fancies quit their lighter vein, And out from Memory's shrine, We marshal thoughts of grief and pain, Known,--once upon a time.

'Tis then that faces, long forgot, In shadows reappear;-- Voices, that once we heeded not, Come whispering in the ear; And ghosts of friends whom once we met, When life was in its prime, Recall acts we would fain forget, Done,--once upon time.

Regretfull sighs for thoughtless deeds, That worked another wrong; Vows that we broke, like rotten reeds Like spectres glide along; Tears naught avail to heal the smart, We caused--nor deemed it crime, Whilst selfishly we wrung a heart, Loved,--once upon a time.

Oh, could we but, as on we go, Care more for other's weal, Nor deem all joys earth can bestow, Are but for us to feel; Then howe'er humble, howe'er poor, Our lives would be sublime, Nor should we dread to ponder o'er, Days,--once upon a time.

Nearing Home.

We are near the last bend of the river, Soon will the prospect be bright; Already the waves seem to quiver, As touched with celestial light. Since first we were launched on its bosom, Strange hap'nings and perils we've passed, But we've braved and endured them together And we're nearing the haven at last.

We are near the last bend of lifes river, Around, all is tranquil and calm; The tempests that passed us can never, Again strike our souls with alarm. We are drifting,--unconsciously gliding, Down Time's river--my darling and me. And soon in love's sweet trust abiding, We shall sail on Eternities sea.

Oh, how the soul strains with its yearning To see what is hid beyond this, This life, with its pain and heartburning-- The beyond, where is nothing but bliss. Our life's Sun has touched the horizon, It will speedily dip out of sight, And then what? Will a new morn be rising? Or will it for ever be night?

Those Tiny Fingers.

She has gone for ever from earth away, Yet those tiny fingers haunt me still; In the silent night, when the moons pale ray, Silvers the leaves on the window sill. Just between sleeping and waking I lie, Makebelieve feeling their velvet touch, Darling! My darling! Oh, why should you die! Leaving me lonely, who loved so much?

Those tiny fingers that used to stray Over my face which is wrinkled now; Those little white hands--how they used to play, With the wanton curls round my once fair brow. Thy soft blue eyes and thy dimpled cheeks, I seem to see now as I saw them then; And a whispering voice to my sad heart speaks,-- 'Thou shalt meet her again,'--but when? oh, when?

Deep in the grave was the coffin laid, And buried with it was my purest love; Oh, how I'd hoped, and watched, and prayed, That Death would pass by and spare my dove, Was it in mercy God took thee hence? Was it because I had worshipped thee so? Was my devotion to thee an offence? I was thy mother,--and God must know.

If it were sinful, my tears have atoned; At last I can murmur, "Thy will be done," Sweet little cherub, to me but loaned, Now safe at home, far beyond the sun. Soon the dark river I too shall cross, And hopefully climb up that golden stair, And all this world's riches will be but dross, If those tiny fingers beckon me there.

Lilly-White Hand.

Place thy lilly-white hand in mine, Maid with the wealth of golden hair;-- Tresses, that gleaming like gold, entwine, Round about a sweet face so fair.

Sweetheart, oh! whisper once more the words, That came from those coral lips of thine, And bound thee to me by those silken cords,-- And place thy lilly-white hand in mine,

Place thy lilly-white hand in mine, That its gentle pressure may tell my heart That the idol round which I had reared a shrine, Is mine,--mine,--never from me to part.

Sweetest and fairest of woman kind! Gentlest, kindest, lovingest, best,-- Virtues with beauties are so combined, That manhood pays homage at love's behest.