In other years, its silent rooms Were filled with haunting fears;Now, their very memory comes O'ercharged with tender tears.
Life and marriage I have known.
Things once deemed so bright;Now, how utterly is flown Every ray of light!
'Mid the unknown sea, of life I no blest isle have found;At last, through all its wild wave's strife, My bark is homeward bound.
Farewell, dark and rolling deep!
Farewell, foreign shore!
Open, in unclouded sweep, Thou glorious realm before!
Yet, though I had safely pass'd That weary, vexed main, One loved voice, through surge and blast Could call me back again.
Though the soul's bright morning rose O'er Paradise for me, William! even from Heaven's repose I'd turn, invoked by thee!
Storm nor surge should e'er arrest My soul, exalting then:
All my heaven was once thy breast, Would it were mine again!
PRESENTIMENT.
"Sister, you've sat there all the day, Come to the hearth awhile;The wind so wildly sweeps away, The clouds so darkly pile.
That open book has lain, unread, For hours upon your knee;You've never smiled nor turned your head;What can you, sister, see?"
"Come hither, Jane, look down the field;How dense a mist creeps on!
The path, the hedge, are both concealed, Ev'n the white gate is gone No landscape through the fog I trace, No hill with pastures green;All featureless is Nature's face.
All masked in clouds her mien.
"Scarce is the rustle of a leaf Heard in our garden now;The year grows old, its days wax brief, The tresses leave its brow.
The rain drives fast before the wind, The sky is blank and grey;O Jane, what sadness fills the mind On such a dreary day!"
"You think too much, my sister dear;You sit too long alone;What though November days be drear?
Full soon will they be gone.
I've swept the hearth, and placed your chair,.
Come, Emma, sit by me;Our own fireside is never drear, Though late and wintry wane the year, Though rough the night may be."
"The peaceful glow of our fireside Imparts no peace to me:
My thoughts would rather wander wide Than rest, dear Jane, with thee.
I'm on a distant journey bound, And if, about my heart, Too closely kindred ties were bound, 'Twould break when forced to part.
"'Soon will November days be o'er:'
Well have you spoken, Jane:
My own forebodings tell me more--
For me, I know by presage sure, They'll ne'er return again.
Ere long, nor sun nor storm to me Will bring or joy or gloom;They reach not that Eternity Which soon will be my home."
Eight months are gone, the summer sun Sets in a glorious sky;A quiet field, all green and lone, Receives its rosy dye.
Jane sits upon a shaded stile, Alone she sits there now;Her head rests on her hand the while, And thought o'ercasts her brow.
She's thinking of one winter's day, A few short months ago, Then Emma's bier was borne away O'er wastes of frozen snow.
She's thinking how that drifted snow Dissolved in spring's first gleam, And how her sister's memory now Fades, even as fades a dream.
The snow will whiten earth again, But Emma comes no more;She left, 'mid winter's sleet and rain, This world for Heaven's far shore.
On Beulah's hills she wanders now, On Eden's tranquil plain;To her shall Jane hereafter go, She ne'er shall come to Jane!
THE TEACHER'S MONOLOGUE.
The room is quiet, thoughts alone People its mute tranquillity;The yoke put off, the long task done,--
I am, as it is bliss to be, Still and untroubled. Now, I see, For the first time, how soft the day O'er waveless water, stirless tree, Silent and sunny, wings its way.
Now, as I watch that distant hill, So faint, so blue, so far removed, Sweet dreams of home my heart may fill, That home where I am known and loved:
It lies beyond; yon azure brow Parts me from all Earth holds for me;And, morn and eve, my yearnings flow Thitherward tending, changelessly.
My happiest hours, aye! all the time, I love to keep in memory, Lapsed among moors, ere life's first prime Decayed to dark anxiety.
Sometimes, I think a narrow heart Makes me thus mourn those far away, And keeps my love so far apart From friends and friendships of to-day;Sometimes, I think 'tis but a dream I treasure up so jealously, All the sweet thoughts I live on seem To vanish into vacancy:
And then, this strange, coarse world around Seems all that's palpable and true;And every sight, and every sound, Combines my spirit to subdue To aching grief, so void and lone Is Life and Earth--so worse than vain, The hopes that, in my own heart sown, And cherished by such sun and rain As Joy and transient Sorrow shed, Have ripened to a harvest there:
Alas! methinks I hear it said, "Thy golden sheaves are empty air."
All fades away; my very home I think will soon be desolate;I hear, at times, a warning come Of bitter partings at its gate;And, if I should return and see The hearth-fire quenched, the vacant chair;And hear it whispered mournfully, That farewells have been spoken there, What shall I do, and whither turn?
Where look for peace? When cease to mourn?
*
'Tis not the air I wished to play, The strain I wished to sing;My wilful spirit slipped away And struck another string.
I neither wanted smile nor tear, Bright joy nor bitter woe, But just a song that sweet and clear, Though haply sad, might flow.
A quiet song, to solace me When sleep refused to come;A strain to chase despondency, When sorrowful for home.
In vain I try; I cannot sing;All feels so cold and dead;No wild distress, no gushing spring Of tears in anguish shed;But all the impatient gloom of one Who waits a distant day, When, some great task of suffering done, Repose shall toil repay.
For youth departs, and pleasure flies, And life consumes away, And youth's rejoicing ardour dies Beneath this drear delay;And Patience, weary with her yoke, Is yielding to despair, And Health's elastic spring is broke Beneath the strain of care.
Life will be gone ere I have lived;Where now is Life's first prime?
I've worked and studied, longed and grieved, Through all that rosy time.
To toil, to think, to long, to grieve,--
Is such my future fate?
The morn was dreary, must the eve Be also desolate?
