Fleurs de lys and Other Poems | Page 8

Raise a statue to the founder of this great, historic town,
Chomedey de Maisonneuve, or pity me and take mine down."
RED ROSES.
TO ONE WHO LOVES RED ROSES.
_
When our lives were in their springtime and our souls were in the
bud, While the watchful world was silent, heeding not such childish
love, I poured forth for thee my heart-thoughts in a sweet, unthinking
flood,
Like a bird that carols freely in the grove.
And thou heardst them, half unconscious of the import that they bore,
Till the years unlocked the chambers of thy stainless, maiden heart And
thou badest my songs be silent. They are silent evermore,
But their echoes from my soul will not depart.

Yet the love songs that I lilted in those by-gone childhood days, Surely,
them thou wilt not silence, let them be a memory dear Of the happy
days of childhood when unchecked I sang thy praise,
While with thee I looked to heaven and deemed it here.
_
THREE SONNETS.
THE MAIDEN.
The melody of birds is in her voice.
The lake is not more crystal than
her eyes,
In whose brown depths her soul still sleeping lies.
With
her soft curls the passionate zephyr toys,
And whispers in her ear of
coming joys.
Upon her breast red rosebuds fall and rise,
Kissing her
snowy throat, and, lover-wise,
Breathing forth sweetness till the
fragrance cloys.
Sometimes she thinks of love, but, oftener yet,
Wooing but wearies
her, and love's warm phrase
Repels and frightens her. Then, like the
sun
At misty dawn, amid the fear and fret
There rises in her heart at last some One,
And all save love is
banished by his rays.
THE WIFE.
There stands a cottage by a river side,
With rustic benches sloping
eaves beneath,
Amid a scene of mountain, stream and heath.
A
dainty garden, watered by the tide,
On whose calm breast the queenly
lilies ride,
Is bright with many a purple pansy wreath,
While here
and there forbidden lion's teeth
Uprear their golden crowns with
stubborn pride.
See! there she leans upon the little gate,
Unchanged, save that her
curls, once flowing free,
Are closely coiled upon her shapely head,

And that her eyes look forth more thoughtfully.
Hark to her sigh!

"Why tarries he so late?"
But mark her smile! She hears his
well-known tread.
THE MOTHER.
Beneath the eaves there is another chair,
And a bruised lily lies upon
the walk,
With the bright drops still clinging to its stalk.
Whose
careless hand has dropped its treasure there?
And whose small form
does that frail settee bear?
Whose are that wooden shepherdess and
flock,
That noble coach with steeds that never balk?
And why the
gate that tops the cottage-stair?
Ah! he has now a rival for her love,
A chubby-cheeked, soft-fisted
Don Juan,
Who rules with iron hand in velvet glove
Mother and
sire, as only Baby can.
See! there they romp, the mother and her boy,

He on her shoulders perched and wild with joy.
LONG AGO.
The sun was swimming in the purple tide,
His golden locks far
floating on the sea,
When thou and I stole beachward, side by side,

To say adieu and dream of joys to be.
The ebbing waves were
whispering to the strand
Amid the rocks a tender, sweet good-bye--

Ah! Well that night could we two understand
What bitter grief was in
their ceaseless cry.
The salt wind blew across the rank marsh grass,
And laid its chilling,
fingers on our pulse.
Sea nettles lay in many a shapeless mass,
Half
hidden, in the garnet hills of dulse.
The awkward crabs ran sideways
from our path,
And starfish sprawled face downward in the mud;

While, token of some bleak December's wrath,
A wreck lay stranded
high above the flood.
Few were our words. Love speaks from heart to heart,
Nor needs that
rude interpreter the tongue.
A few short hours and fate would bid us

part,
No more to stray the weedy rocks among.
We dared not trust
our bitter thoughts to speech.
For speech had raised the floodgates of
our tears;
And so we walked in silence on the beach
With the wild
billows wailing in our ears.
How beautiful thou wast! Thy snowy gown,
Whose rustle made
sweet music, part revealed
Thy perfect form. Thy thoughtful eyes and
brown,
Beneath their drooping lashes half concealed,
Swam in a sea
of tears. Thy tresses played
Wild wanton with the wind, and kissed
each cheek,
That flushed and paled, till one had well nigh said.
Thy
very blood did think and love and speak.
We sat within the shelter of the boat.
That, buried in the sand for half
its length,
Before the black-browed storm no more would float
Nor
like a gull defy the tempest's strength.
We spoke of pleasures past, of
joys to be
When we should meet again nor ever part.
I faltered forth
my deathless love for thee,
And in thy tearful silence read thy heart.
We looked upon the setting of the sun;
We marked the summer
twilight fade away;
We saw the star-worlds rising, one by one,
And,
stooping, kiss the surface of the bay.
Then sitting in the moonlight,
each by each,
I bent