Poems by Marietta Holley Part 10

The wild birds sing the same glad song They sang in days of yore; The laughing rivulet glides along, Low whispering to the sh.o.r.e, And its mystic water turns to gold The sunbeam's quivering dart, But I miss the sunshine of my youth, The summer of my heart.

The south wind murmurs tenderly To the complaining leaves; The Flower Queen gorgeous tapestry Of rose and purple weaves.

Yes, Nature's smile, the wary while, Wears all its olden truth, But I miss the sunshine of my heart, The summer of my youth.

THE LADY CECILE.

Sitting alone in the windy tower, While the waves leap high, or are low at rest, What does she think of, hour by hour, With her strange eyes bent on the distant west, And a fresh white rose on her withered breast, What does she think of, hour by hour?

The Lady Cecile.

Low under the lattice, day by day, White homeward sails like swallows come, But the sad eyes look afar and away, And the sailors' songs as they near their home, No glance may win, for she sitteth dumb, With her sad eyes looking afar and away, The Lady Cecile.

Just forty years has she dwelt alone With an ancient servant, grim and gray, Sat alone under sun and moon; But once each year, on the third of June, She treads the creaking staircase down, But back in her tower with the dying day, Is the Lady Cecile.

Beneath the tower of the lonesome hall, Stone stairs creep down where the slow tide flows, There, out of a niche in the mouldering wall, Low leaneth a royal tropical rose: Who set it there none cares, nor knows, Long years ago in the mouldering wall, But the Lady Cecile.

But each third of June as the sun dips low, She descends the stairs to the water's verge, And plucks a rose from the lowest bough Which the lapping waves almost submerge, And what forms out of the deep, resurge To vex her, maybe, with mournful brow, Knows the Lady Cecile.

Her locks are sown with silver hairs, And the face they shroud is pale and wan; Once it was sweet as the rose she wears, Though the perfect lips wore a proud disdain!

But the rose-face paled by time and pain, No new springs know, like the flower she wears, The Lady Cecile.

Why does she set the fresh white rose So faithfully over her silent breast?

And what her thoughts are n.o.body knows, She sits with her secret hid, unguessed, With her strange eyes bent on the distant west, So the slow years come, and the slow year goes, O'er the Lady Cecile.

Forty years! and June the third Came with a storm--loud the winds did blow-- And up in her tower the lady heard The deep waves calling her far below; Wild they leaped and surged, wild the winds did blow, And, listening alone, she thought she heard "Cecile! Cecile!"

And, wrapping her cloak round her withered form, She crept down the stairs of crumbling stone; Higher and fiercer raged the storm As she bent and plucked the rose--but one Had the tempest spared--and the winds did moan, And she thought that she heard o'er the voice of the storm, "Cecile! Cecile!"

She placed the rose on her bloodless breast, And dizzy and faint she reached the tower, And her strange eyes looked out again on the west, And a wave dashed up, as she looked from the tower, Like a hand, and lifted the roots of the flower, And swept it--carried it out to the west, From the Lady Cecile.

And like death was her face, when suddenly, Strangely--a tremulous golden gleam Pierced the pile of clouds, high-ma.s.sed and gray, And the shining, quivering, golden beam Seemed a bridge of light--a gold highway Thrown o'er the wild waves of the bay; And the Lady Cecile

Did eagerly out of her lattice lean With her glad eyes bent on that bridge gold-bright, As if some form by her rapt eyes seen, Were beckoning her down that path of light, That quivering, shining, led from sight, Ending afar in the sunset sheen.

And the Lady Cecile

Cried with her lips that erst were dumb "See! am I not true? your flower I wore,"

And her thin hand eagerly touched the flower, "He is smiling upon me! yes, love, I come."

And a pleasant light, like the light of home, Lit her eyes, and life and pain were o'er To the Lady Cecile.

HOME.

A spirit is out to-night!

His steeds are the winds; oh, list, How he madly sweeps o'er the clouds, And scatters the driving mist.

We will let the curtains fall Between us and the storm; Wheel the sofa up to the hearth, Where the fire is glowing warm.

Little student, leave your book, And come and sit by my side; If you dote on Tennyson so, I'll be jealous of him, my bride.

There, now I can call you my own!

Let me push back the curls from your brow, And look in your dark eyes and see What my bird is thinking of now.

Is she thinking of some high perch Of freedom, and lofty flight?

You smile; oh, little wild bird, You are hopelessly bound to-night!

You are bound with a golden ring, And your captor, like some grim knight, Will lock you up in the deepest cell Of his heart, and hide you from sight.

Sweetheart, sweetheart, do you hear far away The mournful voice of the sea?

It is telling me of the time When I thought you were lost to me.

Nay, love, do not look so sad; It is over, the doubt and the pain; Hark! sweet, to the song of the fire, And the whisper of the rain.

STEPS WE CLIMB.

I.

Like idle clouds our lives move on, By change and chance as idly blown; Our hopes like netted sparrows fly, And vainly beat their wings and die.

Fate conquers all with stony will, Oh, heart, be still--be still!

II.

No! change and chance are slaves that wait On Him who guides the clouds, not fate, But the High King rules seas and sun, He conquers, He, the Mighty One.

So powerless, 'neath that changeless will, Oh, heart, be still--be still!

III.

As a young bird fallen from its nest Beats wildly the kind hand against That lifts it up, so tremblingly Our hearts lie in G.o.d's hand, as He Uplifts them by His loving will, Oh, heart, be still--be still!

IV.

Uplifts them to a perfect peace, A rest beyond all earthly ease, 'Neath the white shadow of the throne-- Low nest forever overshone By tenderest love, our Lord's dear will; Oh, heart, be still--be still!

SQUIRE PERCY'S PRIDE.

The Squire was none of your common men Whose ancestors n.o.body knows, But visible was his lineage In the lines of his Roman nose, That turned in the true patrician curve-- In the curl of his princely lips, In his slightly insolent eyelids, In his pointed finger-tips.

Very erect and grand looked the Squire As he walked o'er his broad estate, For he felt that the earth was honored In bearing his honorable weight; Proudly he strolled through his wooded park Deer-haunted and gloomily grand, Or gazed from his pillared porticoes On his far-outlying land.

In a tiny whitewashed cottage, Half-covered with roses wild, His cheerful-faced old gardener dwelt Alone with his motherless child; The Squire owned the very floor he trod, The gra.s.s in his garden lot, The poor man had only this one little lamb Yet he envied the rich man not.