Grandther Baldwins Thanksgiving with Other Ballads and Poems | Page 6

your hand where your heart goes not
To a man who is
grave and stern and old;
And whose love compared with my
passion-heat,
As the snow of the frozen North, is cold?"
And Rose--I could feel her cheek grow pale--
Her voice was
tremulous, then grew strong--
"Richard," she said, "your words are
wild,
And you do my guardian bitter wrong.
"Did you never hear how, years gone by," --
She spoke in a tremulous
undertone--
"Bereft of friends, o'er the world's highways,
I
wandered forth as a child alone?
"He opened to me his home and heart--
He whom you call so stern
and cold--
And my grateful heart I may well bestow
On him for his
kindness manifold."
"Rose," he said, in a saddened tone,
"I thank him for all he has done

for thee;
He has acted nobly--I did him wrong--
But is there no
voice in your heart for me?"
And Rose--she trembled--I felt it all;
I heard her quick breath come
and go;
Her voice was broken; she only said,
"Have pity, Richard,
and let me go!"
And then--Heaven gave me strength, I think--
I stood before them
calm and still;
You might have thought my tranquil breast
Had
never known one passion-thrill.
And they alternate flushed and paled;
Rose tottered, and I feared
would fall;
I caught her in supporting arms,
And whispered, "Rose,
I heard it all.
"I had a dream, but it is passed,
That we might journey, hand 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