That scene-remember how polite we were,
Growing botanical o'er every flower;
Then the blue sky, its deep intense admiring,
And the grey shadows on the rounded clouds,
Afraid to say what most we had at heart.
Then the beech wood came-the tall wood of masts
Branchless and still; what wonder sweet, my love,
That here we let our golden secret out?
The rest you know.-I've felt so happy now,
Watching the sun-waves' ceaseless flickering
Upon the boat-side dance, just as old joys
Come gently rippling 'gainst the saddened heart,
And break in glowing lines. I've scarce perceived
The tide has left these flags; we've barely time
To clear the shallows in the upper reach,
And bring our skiff up to her mooring-ring
By the old willow shadowing the creek.
THE TWO PICTURES.
ONE winter's evening, just as light had fled,
And noiseless glowed the keen bright frosty fire,
Mary and I, close drawn up side by side,
With eyes dilated, on the caves of gold
And shining castles in the embers clear,
Sat musing on the features of the Past.
And Retrospection many times arose,
Soft as a diver rising through the sea,
And showed old sorrows that, like softest pearls,
'Mid tangled fragments of forgotten things,
His hand had rescued from deep Lethe's stream.
And in the midst of those old faded scenes
The wicker of the little cot it creaked,
Rousing the quick-eared mother from her dreams.
You should have seen her with fresh parted lip
And hushing finger, though the sound was past,
Hanging upon the gentle breath of sleep,
The perfect picture of maternal care.
And then (so runs the music of the heart
That one sweet note remembers yet another)
Once more to me she turned, and with white hand
The silken curtain of her hair drew back,
And fondly pressed her loving cheek to mine,
As though she'd coin her heart out at a touch.
Thus as we sat, my fancies found them words,
And Mary listened, with her hand in mine,
The whilst I visions of the future drew.
I told her of the early morns of June
(Ere yet the starlings underneath the eaves
Lifted their joyous songs, or swiftly ran
With dewy breasts upon the meadow grass)—
When little voices, freshly waked from sleep,
From distant rooms, and laundries, full of sound,
Like to the charming of young birds, would come.
I drew a picture of an eager group
Clustered in quiet by the evening fire;
Their breathless faces fast upon me fixed,
As little leaves enforcéd by the sun,
The whilst I told them of the bloody key,
And fearful Blue Beard calling up the tower
To Fatima, who, in her utmost need,
Saw no. help coming but the flock of sheep.
I showed her all their faces flushed with joy—
Their clapping hands when giants dire were slain,
And the deep wonder dwelling in their eyes
At the unfolding of bright fairy tales,
These marvels that invisibly seem writ
Within our hearts, till little children come,
And warm their hidden characters to life.
And then in fancy up the toilsome stairs
My wife I took, and, through the half-open door,
Showed her our little children on their knees,
Palm unto palm their placid hands upraised,
And prayer escaping from their parted lips
Gently as odorous exhalations creep
From out the bosom of an opening rose.
And further pictures then I should have drawn
Of gallant boyhood, generous and free,
But that my Mary pressed my arm, and said,
"One moment, love-a little let me dwell
Upon this joy: your words within my soul
Have set a golden ladder up, whose end
Is lost in shining clouds of happy light,
On which my thoughts, like angels in the dream,
Climb with a glory burning on their wings.
Ah, me! I fear this heaven is too glad,
And that swift shadows bar the happy light."
Thus as she spoke, there rose within my heart A picture full of sorrowful regrets.
"I see," said I, "the shadow that you dread,
As 'mid the dim green underlight of leaves
A desolate nest among the branches stands,
Emptied of brooding love and cheerful song;
So stands our household in my second dream.
No more from out the sunny garden comes
The shout of boyhood swinging on the branch;
Fled are our little birds, and we, dear wife,
Old joyless people, in the vale of years,
To the dim memories of our children gone,
Are left alone within the dreary house.
Canst thou not see us wandering through the rooms,
Each one the prompter of some perished hope?
Here died our fairest girl, and 'mid our tears
Bade that we kept it evermore the same;
Bade us be careful of her little birds,
Her plants, her range of poets on the shelf;
She loved them so, be sure she'd come again
To haunt once more the old familiar place.
The room remains through twenty years the same,
Still in her careful drawers her long white frocks,.
With lavender all scentless now with age,
Lie stored, and tell of summers long ago.
Or, 'tis the sad mute playroom that we tread,
The echoes of old sounds within our ears;
Old toys they lay about to touch our hearts
With the sad dew of tears, that never more
They shall be cause of joy ous mirth again.
Along the floor with silent foot of gold
Steals the warm sunlight, freshly as the day
It glittered on our darling's flaxen hair.
Our eldest boy, noisy with drum and fife,
Saying he'd be a soldier when a man;
Ah, me! we dreamt not then the end-
It was God's will it should be as it is.
There hangs upon the wall his silken sash,
Faded beneath a burning Indian sun.
Poor boy! he bravely died; we had his captain's word For the young ensign's honour in the field.
Poor boy, he was our last
Hot tears, large as the drops of summer, fell, Stopping my speech. Alas! these were but dreams. That I wove sitting by a winter's fire,
Which faded in a moment from my brain;
But in her woman's heart long time they dwelt, And the bright angels that before did climb, One after one, with shadows on their wings, Slowly she saw descend.
MY ROOM IN THE COUNTRY.
WITH aspect bright, my little room
Should ever be exempt from gloom;
In straight white shafts the morning sun
From the east should inward run;
And the last faint streak of day
Through the western pane should stray.
And cooling chintz of fashion old,
Retaining still its careful fold,
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