Poems by Marietta Holley Part 11

Poor was the gardener, yet rich withal In this priceless pearl of a girl, So perfect a form, so faultless a face Never brightened the halls of an Earl; Her eyes were two fathomless stars of light, And they shone on the Squire day by day, Till their warm and perilous splendor So melted his pride away,

That he fain would have taken this pretty pet lamb To dwell in his stately fold, To fetter it fast with a jeweled chain, And cage it with bars of gold; But this coy little lamb loved its freedom, Not so free was she, though, to be true, But, oh, the dainty and shy little lamb Well her master's voice she knew.

'Twas vain for the Squire the story to tell Of his riches and high descent, As it fell into one rosy sh.e.l.l of an ear Out of its mate it went; How one grim old ancestor into the land With William the Conqueror came, She thought, the sweet, of a conqueror She knew with that very name.

So in this tender conflict The great man was forced to yield To the handsome, sunburnt ploughman Who sowed and reaped in his field; For vainly he poured out his glittering gifts, Vainly he plead and besought, Her heart was a tender and soft little heart, But it was not a heart to be bought.

So strange a thing I warrant you Happens not every day, That the pride that had thriven for centuries One slight little maiden should slay; Why the proud Squire's Roman features Quivered and burned with shame, And the picture of his grim ancestor Blushed in its antique frame.

Were this a romance, an idle tale, The Squire would sicken and die, Slain by the pitiless cruelty, Of her dark and dazzling eye; And she in some shadowy convent Would bow her beautiful head, But the hand that should have told penitent beads Wore a plain gold ring instead.

And he, not twice had his oak trees bloomed Ere he wedded a lady grand, Whose tall and towering family tree, Had for ages darkened the land; 'Twas a famous genealogical tree, With no modernly thrifty shoots, But a tree with a sap of royalty Encrusting its mossy old roots.

This leaf he plucked from the outmost twig Was somewhat withered, 'tis true, Long years had flown since it lightly danced To the summer air and the dew; Not much of a dowry brought she, In beauty or vulgar pelf, But she had two or three ancestors More than the Squire himself.

'Twas much to muse o'er their musty names, And to think that his children's brains Should be moved by the sanguine current, That had flown through such ancient veins; But I think, sometimes, in his secret heart, The Squire breathed woeful sighs For the fresh sweet face of the little maid, With the dark and wonderful eyes.

But she, no bird ever sang such songs To its mate from contented nest, As this wee waiting wife, when the twilight Was treading the glorious west; As she looked through the cl.u.s.tering roses, For the manly form that would come Up through the cool green evening fields To this sweet little wife and home.

She could see the great stone mansion Towering over the oaks' dark green, And the lawn like emerald velvet, Fit for the feet of a queen; But round this brown-eyed princess, Did Love his ermine fold, Queen was she of a richer realm, She had dearer wealth than gold.

ROSES OF JUNE.

She sat in the cottage door, and the fair June moon looked down On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face and sweet As the roses dewy white that grow so thick at her feet, White royal roses, fit for a monarch's crown.

And one is clasped in her slender hand, and one on her bosom lies, And two rare blushing buds loop up her light brown hair, Ah, roses of June, you never looked on a face so white and fair, Such perfectly moulded lips, such sweet and heavenly eyes.

This low-walled home is dear to her, she has come to it to-day From the lordly groves of her palace home afar, But not to stay; there's a light on her brow like the light of a star, And her eyes are looking beyond the earth, far, far away.

She was born in this cottage home, the sweetest rosebud of spring, And grew with its flowers, the fairest blossom of all, Till her friends ambitiously said she would grace the kingliest hall, And flattery breathed on her ear its pa.s.sionate whispering.

A man of riches and taste saw the maiden's face, And thought her beauty would grace his stately southern home, So he took her there, with pictures from France, and statues from Rome, And marvellous works of art from many an ancient place.

He decked her in costly attire, and showed her beauty with pride As for sympathy and love, what need of these had she?

He had placed her amidst the choicest treasures of land and sea, His marble Hebe never complained, and why should his bride?

He had polished the beautiful unknown gem and set it in gold, He had given her his name and his wealth, what more could she ask?

When all other gifts were hers, it were surely an easy task Her pleading spirit's restless wings to fold.

The wise world called her blest, so heart be still, She had beauty, and splendor, and youth, and a husband calmly kind, And crowds of flattering friends her lofty mansion lined, And dark-browed slaves awaited her queenly will.

Why should she dream of the past, of the days of old, Of her childhood home, and more oft of the home of the dead, Of the grave where she went alone the night before she was wed, And knelt, with her pure cheek pressed to the marble cold?

It was not sin, she said, that those eyes of darkest blue Haunted her dreams more wildly from day to day, Since they looked on Heaven now, and she was so far away, She could love the dead and still be to the living true.

She could think of him, the one who loved her best, Of him who true had been if all the world deceived, Who felt all grief with her when she was grieved, And shared each joy that thrilled her girlish breast.

It was not sin that she heard that voice, gentle and deep, And the echo of a name--it was cut in marble now-- So it was not sin, she said, as she breathed it low In the midnight hour when all but she were asleep.

But she wearier grew of pride and pomp, like a home sick child she pined, And paler grew her cheek, as worn with a wearing pain, She said the fresh free country air would seem so sweet again, So she went to her childhood home, as a pilgrim goes to a shrine,

And she looked down the orchard path and the meadow's clover bloom; She stood by the stone-walled well that had mirrored her face when a child, She saw where the robins built, and her roses clambered wild, And lingered lost in thought in each low and rustic room.

And she sat in the cottage door while the fair June moon looked down On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face, and sweet As the roses wet with dew that grew so thick at her feet, White, royal roses, fit for a monarch's crown.

But at night, when silence and sleep on the lonely hamlet fell Like a spirit clad in white through the graveyard gate she pa.s.sed, And the stars bent down to hear, "I have come to you, love, at last,"

While through the valley solemnly sounded the midnight bell.

And her southern birds will wait her coming in vain, Their starry eyes impatiently pierce the palm-trees' shade, And her roses droop in their bowers, alone they'll wither and fade.

Roses of June you are gone, but we know you will blossom again.

MAGDALENA.

Who falsely called thee destroyer, still white Angel of Death?

Oh not a destroyer here, but a kind restorer, thou, For the guilty look is gone, died out with her failing breath, And the sinless peace of a babe has come to lip and brow.

Drowned in the heaving tide with her life, is her burden of woe, The dreary weight of sin, the woeful, troublesome years, The cold pure touch of the water has washed the shame from her brow Leaving a calm immortal, that looks like the chrism of peace.

I fancy her smile was like this, as she pulled at her mother's gown Drawing her out with childish fingers to watch the red of the skies On the old brown doorstep of home, while the peaceful sun went down, With her mother's hand on her brow, and the glow of the west in her eyes.

"An outcast vile and lost," you say, yes, she went astray, Astray, when the crimson wine of life ran fresh and wild, With mother's tender hand no more on her brow, put away The gra.s.ses beneath, and she was alone and almost a child.

Like a kid decoyed to its death, the stealthy panther lures, Mocking the voice of its dam, thus he led the innocent child Through her tenderness down to ruin, he is a friend of yours, And admired by all; as you say, "men will be wild."

But I wonder if G.o.d, so far above on His great white throne The clanging tumult of trouble and doubt that mortals vex; When the murmur of a crime sweeps up from earth with woeful moan, If He pauses, ere He condemns, to ask the offender's s.e.x.

And if so, whether the weaker or stronger He blames the most, The tempter or tempted a t.i.the of His tender compa.s.sion claims, Whether the selfish or too unselfish, those who through love or l.u.s.t are lost, He in His infinite wisdom and mercy most condemns.

Frown not, I know her evil our womanly nature shuns, Turns from, with shuddering horror; but now so low is her head For G.o.d's sake, woman, remember your own little ones Lying safely at home in their snow-white sheltered bed.

Your own little girls, for them does the flame of your anger burn, "Such creatures will draw down innocence into guilt and woe."

I think from eternity vast she will scarcely return To entice them to sin, you can safely forgive her now.

"You will not countenance wrong, but fiercely war for the right Even unto the bitter death." Very good, you should do so, But, my friend, if your own secret thought had blossomed to light In temptation, you might have been in this outcast's place, you know.

So let us be pitiful, grateful that G.o.d's strong hand Has held our own, and the tale of a woman's despair And penitent sin, He stooped and wrote in the perishing sand; We carve the record in stone, weak, sinful souls that we are.

In the arms of the kind all-mother, but close to the sorrowful wave, With its voice no longer moaning to her a despairing call, But a dirge deploring and deep; we will make her grave, With healing gra.s.ses above her, and G.o.d over all.

MY ANGEL.