Ballads | Page 4

in hand

Along the rugged steeps of life,
Until we reached God's promised
land.
"This was my dream; -- 'tis over now;--
Thank Heaven, it is not yet
too late!
I pray no selfish act of mine
May keep two young hearts
separate."
I placed her passive hand in hisWith
how much pain God only
knows--
And blessing him for her sweet sake,
I left him standing

with my Rose!
PHOEBE'S WOOING.
"PHOEBE! Phoebe! Where is the chit?
When I want her most she's
out of the way.
Child, you're running a long account
Up, to be
squared on Judgment-day.
"Where have you been? and what have you there?"
"To the pasture
for buttercups wet with dew."
"My patience! I think you are out of
your wits;
I wonder what good will buttercups do?
"There's pennyroyal you might have got,-
It might have been useful
to you or me,
But I never heard, in all my life,
Of buttercup cordial
or buttercup tea.
"I want you to stay and mind the bread,
I've just put two loaves in the
oven to bake;
When they are clone take them carefully out,
And put
in their place this loaf of cake,
"While I run over to Widow Brown's;
Her son, from the mines, has
just got back.
I don't believe he's a cent in his purse,
Young men are
so shiftless now, alack!
"It was very different when I was young;
Young men were prudent,
and girls were wise;
You wouldn't catch them gadding about
Like
so many idle butterflies."
So bustled and scolded the worthy dame,
Until she had passed the
outer sill,
To do her justice, it seldom chanced
That her hands were
idle, or tongue was still.
So Phoebe gathered her knitting up,
And sat her down in the chimney
niche;
But her mind was on other thoughts intent,
And here and
there she dropped a stitch.

The yellow kitten purred on the hearth,
While the kitchen clock, with
its frame of oak,
In the corner stood, like a sentinel,
And challenged
time with its measured stroke.
But Phoebe's mind was on none of these:
The bread in the oven, her
good aunt's frown,
And the scene before her faded away,
And
blended with thoughts of Reuben Brown:
How they walked together on summer days,
Or bravely faced the
winter's chill,
And chatted merrily all the way
To the little
school-house on Sligo Hill.
How both grew older, and school-days passed,
When he was a youth,
and a maiden she;
How often she went with Reuben Brown
To the
rustic dance or the social bee.
The warm flush deepened on Phoebe's cheek,
And she breathed a low,
half-conscious sigh;
Ah, well-a-day! they were happy times,
But he
has forgotten, and so must I."
So Phoebe gathered her knitting up,
Which, while she was thinking,
had fallen down,
When her quick ear caught a strange footfall,
And
there in the doorway stood Reuben Brown,
With the same frank, handsome face she knew,
A smile as bright, and
an eye as black--
"Phoebe," he said, "I have wandered far;
Are you
glad to see your playmate back?"
The kitten still purred on the kitchen hearth,
And the ancient clock,
with its frame of oak,
In the corner stood, like a sentinel,
And
challenged time with its measured stroke.
A pleased light shone in the maiden's eyes;
Ah, love, young love, it is
very sweet!
Reuben had gone, but she sat quite still,
And the
knitting lay untouched at her feet.

Just then the dame came bustling in,
And went to the oven without
ado.
"Why, Phoebe, child, what have you done?
The bread is baked
as black as my shoe!"
And Phoebe started, and blushed for shame,
Took up her knitting and
dropped it down;
And when her aunt said, "What ails you, child?"

She hastily answered, "Reuben Brown."
Ah, love! young love! it is very sweet,
In field, or hamlet, or crowded
mart;
But it burns with the brightest, purest flame
In the hidden
depths of a young maid's heart.
THE LOST HEART.
One golden summer day,
Along the forest-way,
Young Colin
passed with blithesome steps alert.
His locks with careless grace
Rimmed round his handsome face

And drifted outward on the airy surge.
So blithe of heart was he,
He hummed a melody,
And all the birds
were hushed to hear him sing.
Across his shoulders flung
His bow and baldric hung:
So, in true
huntsman's guise, he threads the wood.
The sun mounts up the sky,
The air moves sluggishly,
And reeks
with summer heat in every pore.
His limbs begin to tire,
Slumbers his youthful fire;
He sinks upon a
violet-bed to rest.
The soft winds go and come
With low and drowsy hum,
And ope
for him the ivory gate of dreams.
Beneath the forest-shade
There trips a woodland maid,
And marks
with startled eye the sleeping youth.

At first she thought to fly,
Then, timid, drawing nigh,
She gazed in
wonder on his fair young face.
When swiftly stooping down
Upon his locks so brown
She lightly
pressed her lips, and blushing fled.
When Colin woke from sleep,
From slumbers calm and deep,
He
felt- he knew not how- his heart had flown.
And so, with anxious care,
He wandered here and there,
But could
not find his lost heart anywhere.