The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon Part 3

See! I tear away the flowers From my perfumed golden hair, Closely tended in past hours With such jealous, sinful care; Never more for me they blossom, Not for me those jewels vain: On my arms or brow or bosom, They shall never shine again.

Dost thou wonder at my daring Thus to seek thy sacred shrine, When the sinner's lot despairing, Wretched--hopeless--should be mine?

To the instincts high of woman Most unfaithful and untrue; Yet Madonna, hope inspires me, For thou wast a woman too.

Evil promptings, dark-despairing, Whisper: "Leave this sacred spot; Back to sinful joys, repairing, In them live and struggle not!"

But a bright hope tells that heaven May by me e'en yet be won, That I yet may be forgiven, Mary, by thy spotless Son!

Yes! I look on thy mild features, Full of dove-like, tender love-- Once the humblest of G.o.d's creatures, Now with Him enthroned above!

Every trait angelic breathing Sweetest promises of peace; And the smile thy soft lips wreathing Tell me that my griefs shall cease.

Soft the evening shadows gather But no longer shall I wait, I will rise and seek the Father, For it is not yet too late; And when earthly cares oppress me, When life's paths my bruised feet pain; Hither shall I come to rest me, And new strength and courage gain!

THE VESPER HOUR.

Soft and holy Vesper Hour-- Precursor of the night-- How I love thy soothing power, The hush, the fading light; Raising those vain thoughts of ours To higher, holier things-- Mingling gleams from Eden's bowers With earth's imaginings!

How thrilling in some grand old fane To hear the Vesper prayer Rise, with the organ's solemn strain, On incense-laden air; While the last dying smiles of day Athwart the stained gla.s.s pour-- Flooding with red and golden ray The shrine and chancel floor.

Who, at such moment, has not felt Those yearnings, vague, yet sweet, For Heaven's joys at last to melt, Into fruition meet; And wished, as with rapt soul he viewed That glorious Home above, That earth's vain thoughts would ne'er intrude On visions of G.o.d's love?

To this calm hour belongs a sway The bright day cannot wield-- Sweet as the evening star's first ray, Transforming wood and field; Soft'ing gay flowers else too bright And silvering hill and dell; And clothing earth in that mild light The sad heart loves so well.

THE PARTING SOUL AND HER GUARDIAN ANGEL.

(_Written during sickness_).

_Soul_-- Oh! say must I leave this world of light With its sparkling streams and sunshine bright, Its budding flowers, its glorious sky?

Vain 'tis to ask me--I cannot die!

_Angel_-- But, sister, list! in the realms above, That happy home of eternal love, Are flowers more fair, and skies more clear Than those thou dost cling to so fondly here.

_Soul_-- Ah! yes, but to reach that home of light I must pa.s.s through the fearful vale of night; And my soul with alarm doth shuddering cry-- O angel, I tell thee, I dare not die!

_Angel_-- Ah! mortal beloved, in that path untried Will I be, as ever, still at thy side, Through gloom to guide till, death's shadows pa.s.sed, Thou nearest, unharmed, G.o.d's throne at last.

_Soul_-- Alas! too many close ties of love Around my wavering heart are wove!

Fond, tender voices, press me to stay-- Think'st thou from them I would pa.s.s away?

Daily my mother, with anguish wild, Bends o'er the couch of her dying child, And one, nearer still, with silent tears, Betrays his anguish, his gloomy fears-- Yes, even now, while to thee I speak, Are hot drops falling upon my cheek; Think you I'd break from so close a tie?

No, my guardian angel, I cannot die!

_Angel_-- Poor child of earth! how closely clings Thy heart to earth and to earthly things!

Wilt thou still revolt if I whisper low That thy Father in Heaven wills it so-- Wills that with Him thou should'st henceforth dwell, To pray for those whom thou lovest so well, Till a time shall come when you'll meet again, To forget for ever life's grief and pain?

_Soul_-- Spirit, thy words have a potent power O'er my sinking heart in this awful hour, And thy soft-breathed hopes, with magic might.

Have chased from my soul the shades of night.

Console the dear ones I part from now, Who hang o'er my couch with pallid brow, Tell them we'll meet in yon shining sky-- And, Saviour tender, now let me die!

ASH-WEDNESDAY.

Glitt'ring b.a.l.l.s and thoughtless revels Fill up now each misspent night-- 'Tis the reign of pride and folly, The Carnival is at its height.

Every thought for siren pleasure, And its sinful, feverish mirth; Who can find one moment's leisure For aught else save things of earth?

But, see, sudden stillness falling O'er those revels, late so loud, And a hush comes quickly over All the maddened giddy crowd, For a voice from out our churches Has proclaimed in words that burn: "Only dust art thou, proud mortal, And to dust shall thou return!"

And, behold, Religion scatters Dust and ashes on each brow; Thus replacing gem and flower With that lowly symbol now: On the forehead fair of beauty, And on manhood's front of pride, Rich and poor and spirit weary-- All receive it, side by side.

And the hearts that throbbed so wildly For vain pleasure's dreams alone, For its gilded gauds and follies, Now at length have calmer grown.

Oh! that voice with heavenly power Through each restless breast hath thrilled, And our churches, late so lonely, Now with contrite hearts are filled.

Fair and lovely are our altars With their starry tapers bright, With dim clouds of fragrant incense, Fair young choristers in white, And the dying gleam of day-light, With its blushing crimson glow, Streaming through the lofty cas.e.m.e.nt On the kneeling crowd below.

Tis an hour of golden promise For the hearts that secret burn With contrite and anxious wishes To the Father to return; For a Saviour, full of mercy, On His altar-throne is there, Waiting but that they should ask Him, For response to whispered prayer.

THE WHITE CANOE.

A LEGEND OF NIAGARA FALLS.

In days long gone by it was the custom of the Indian warriors of the forest to a.s.semble at the Great Cataract and offer a human sacrifice to the Spirit of the Falls. The offering consisted of a white canoe, full of ripe fruits and blooming flowers, which was paddled over the terrible cliff by the fairest girl of the tribe.

It was counted an honor not only by the tribe to whose lot it fell to make the costly sacrifice, but even by the doomed maiden herself. The only daughter of a widowed Chief of the Seneca Indians was chosen as a sacrificial offering to the Spirit of Niagara. Tolonga, the Great Elk, was bravest among the warriors, and devotedly attached to his child, but, when the lot fell on her, he crushed down in the pride of Indian endurance the feelings of grief that filled his bosom. The eventful night arrived. The moon arose and shone brightly down oh the turmoil of Niagara, when the White Canoe and its precious freight glided from the bank and swept out into the dread rapid. The young girl calmly steered towards the centre of the stream, when suddenly another canoe shot forth upon the water and, under the strong impulse of the Seneca Chief, flew like an arrow to destruction.

It overtook the first; the eyes of father and child met in a parting gaze of love, and then they plunged together over the Cataract into Eternity.

THE WHITE CANOE.

_A Legend of Niagara Falls_

A CANTATA.

MINAHITA, Indian Maiden.

OREIKA, Her Friend.