THE WELCOME HOME.
Above the city hangs the moon, Some clouds are boding rain;Gilbert, erewhile on journey gone, To-night comes home again.
Ten years have passed above his head, Each year has brought him gain ;His prosperous life has smoothly sped, Without or tear or stain.
'Tis somewhat late--the city clocks Twelve deep vibrations toll, As Gilbert at the portal knocks, Which is his journey's goal.
The street is still and desolate, The moon hid by a cloud;Gilbert, impatient, will not wait,--
His second knock peals loud.
The clocks are hushed--there's not a light In any window nigh, And not a single planet bright Looks from the clouded sky;The air is raw, the rain descends, A bitter north-wind blows;His cloak the traveller scarce defends--
Will not the door unclose?
He knocks the third time, and the last His summons now they hear, Within, a footstep, hurrying fast, Is heard approaching near.
The bolt is drawn, the clanking chain Falls to the floor of stone;And Gilbert to his heart will strain His wife and children soon.
The hand that lifts the latchet, holds A candle to his sight, And Gilbert, on the step, beholds A woman, clad in white.
Lo! water from her dripping dress Runs on the streaming floor;From every dark and clinging tress The drops incessant pour.
There's none but her to welcome him;She holds the candle high, And, motionless in form and limb, Stands cold and silent nigh;There's sand and sea-weed on her robe, Her hollow eyes are blind;No pulse in such a frame can throb, No life is there defined.
Gilbert turned ashy-white, but still His lips vouchsafed no cry;He spurred his strength and master-will To pass the figure by,--
But, moving slow, it faced him straight, It would not flinch nor quail:
Then first did Gilbert's strength abate, His stony firmness quail.
He sank upon his knees and prayed The shape stood rigid there;He called aloud for human aid, No human aid was near.
An accent strange did thus repeat Heaven's stern but just decree:
"The measure thou to her didst mete, To thee shall measured be!"
Gilbert sprang from his bended knees, By the pale spectre pushed, And, wild as one whom demons seize, Up the hall-staircase rushed;Entered his chamber--near the bed Sheathed steel and fire-arms hung--
Impelled by maniac purpose dread He chose those stores among.
Across his throat a keen-edged knife With vigorous hand he drew;The wound was wide--his outraged life Rushed rash and redly through.
And thus died, by a shameful death, A wise and worldly man, Who never drew but selfish breath Since first his life began.
LIFE.
Life, believe, is not a dream So dark as sages say;Oft a little morning rain Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom, But these are transient all;If the shower will make the roses bloom, O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily, Life's sunny hours flit by, Gratefully, cheerily Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in, And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win, O'er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs, Unconquered, though she fell;Still buoyant are her golden wings, Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly, The day of trial bear, For gloriously, victoriously, Can courage quell despair!
THE LETTER.
What is she writing? Watch her now, How fast her fingers move!
How eagerly her youthful brow Is bent in thought above!
Her long curls, drooping, shade the light, She puts them quick aside, Nor knows that band of crystals bright, Her hasty touch untied.
It slips adown her silken dress, Falls glittering at her feet;Unmarked it falls, for she no less Pursues her labour sweet.
The very loveliest hour that shines, Is in that deep blue sky;The golden sun of June declines, It has not caught her eye.
The cheerful lawn, and unclosed gate, The white road, far away, In vain for her light footsteps wait, She comes not forth to-day.
There is an open door of glass Close by that lady's chair, From thence, to slopes of messy grass, Descends a marble stair.
Tall plants of bright and spicy bloom Around the threshold grow;Their leaves and blossoms shade the room From that sun's deepening glow.
Why does she not a moment glance Between the clustering flowers, And mark in heaven the radiant dance Of evening's rosy hours?
O look again! Still fixed her eye, Unsmiling, earnest, still, And fast her pen and fingers fly, Urged by her eager will.
Her soul is in th'absorbing task;To whom, then, doth she write?
Nay, watch her still more closely, ask Her own eyes' serious light;Where do they turn, as now her pen Hangs o'er th'unfinished line?
Whence fell the tearful gleam that then Did in their dark spheres shine?
The summer-parlour looks so dark, When from that sky you turn, And from th'expanse of that green park, You scarce may aught discern.
Yet, o'er the piles of porcelain rare, O'er flower-stand, couch, and vase, Sloped, as if leaning on the air, One picture meets the gaze.
'Tis there she turns; you may not see Distinct, what form defines The clouded mass of mystery Yon broad gold frame confines.
But look again; inured to shade Your eyes now faintly trace A stalwart form, a massive head, A firm, determined face.
Black Spanish locks, a sunburnt cheek A brow high, broad, and white, Where every furrow seems to speak Of mind and moral might.
Is that her god? I cannot tell;Her eye a moment met Th'impending picture, then it fell Darkened and dimmed and wet.
A moment more, her task is done, And sealed the letter lies;And now, towards the setting sun She turns her tearful eyes.
Those tears flow over, wonder not, For by the inscription see In what a strange and distant spot Her heart of hearts must be!
Three seas and many a league of land That letter must pass o'er, Ere read by him to whose loved hand 'Tis sent from England's shore.
Remote colonial wilds detain Her husband, loved though stern;She, 'mid that smiling English scene, Weeps for his wished return.
REGRET.
Long ago I wished to leave "The house where I was born;"
Long ago I used to grieve, My home seemed so forlorn.
