Indian Legends and Other Poems | Page 6

not for the hectic spot?That glowed so soft and clear.
And always, as the evening chime?With measured cadence fell,?Her vespers o'er, she sought alone?A little garden dell.
And when she came to us again,?She moved with lighter air;?We thought the angels ministered?To her while kneeling there.
One eve I followed on her way,?And asked her of her life.?A faint blush mantled cheek and brow,?The sign of inward strife
And when she spoke, the zephyrs caught?The words so soft and clear,?And told them over to the flowers?That bloomed in beauty near.
"I know not," thus she said to me,?"If my young cheek is pale,?But daily do I feel within?This life of mine grow frail.
"There is a flower that hears afar?The coming tempest knell,?And folds its tiny leaves in fear,--?The scarlet Pimpernel:
"And thus my listening spirit heard?The rush of Death's cold wing,?And tremulously folded close,?In childhood's early Spring.
"I never knew a parent's care,?A sister's gentle love:?They early left this world of ours?For better lands above.
"And so I loved not earthly joys,?The merry dance and play,?But sought to commune with the stars,?And learn the wind's wild lay.
"The pure and gentle flowers became?As sisters fair to me:?I needed no interpreter?To read their language free.
"And 'neath the proud and grand old trees?That seemed to touch the sky,?We prayed, alike with lowly head,?The violets and I.
"And years rolled on and brought to me?But woman's lot below,?Intensest hours of happiness,?Intensest hours of woe.
"For one there was whose word and smile?Had power to thrill my heart:?One eve the summons came for him?To battle to depart.
"And when again the setting sun?In crimson robed the west,?They bore him to his childhood's home,--?The life-blood on his breast.
"Another day, at vesper chime,?They laid him low to sleep,?And always at that fated hour?I kneel to pray and weep.
"'T is said the radiant stars of night,?When viewed through different air,?Appear not all in golden robes,?But various colors wear.
"And through another atmosphere,?My spirit seemed to gaze?For never more wore life to me?The hues of other days.
"Once to my soul unbidden came?A strange and fiery guest,?That soon assumed an empire there,?And never is at rest.
"It binds the chords with arm of might,?And strikes with impulse strong;?I know not whence the visitant,?But mortals call it song.
"It never pants for earthly fame,?But chants a mournful wail?For ever o'er the loved and dead,?Like wind-harps in a gale."
She said no more, but lingered long?Upon that quiet spot,?With such a glory on her brow,?'T will never be forgot!
Next eve at nine, for prayers we met,?And missed her from her place;?We found her sleeping with the flowers,?But Death was on her face.
We buried her, as she had asked,?Just at the vesper chime;?The sunbeams seemed to stay their flight,?So holy was the time.
I've heard that when the rainbow fades?From parting clouds on high,?It leaves where smiled the radiant arch?A fragrance in the sky:
It may be fantasy, I know,?But round that hour of Death?I always found an aroma?On every zephyr's breath.
And this is why the twilight hour?Is holier far to me,?Than gorgeous burst of morning light,?Or moonbeams on the sea.
THE MANIAC.
A story is told in Spain, of a woman, who, by a sudden shock of domestic calamity, became insane, and ever after looked up incessantly to the sky.
O'er her infant's couch of death,?Bent a widowed mother low;?And the quick, convulsive breath?Marked the inward weight of woe.
Round the fair child's forehead clung?Golden tresses, damp and bright;?While Death's pinion o'er it hung,?And the parted lips grew white.
Reason left the mother's eye,?When the latest pang was o'er;?Then she raised her gaze on high,?Turned it earthward nevermore.
By the dark and silent tomb,?Where they laid the dead to rest;?By the empty cradle's gloom,?And the fireside once so blest;
In the lone and narrow cell,?Fettered by the clanking chain,?Where the maniac's piercing yell?Thrilled the heart with dread and pain;--
Upward still she fixed her gaze,?Tearless and bewildered too,?Speaking of the fearful night?Madness o'er the spirit threw;
Upward, upward,--till in love?Death removed the veil of Time,?Raised the broken heart above,?To the far-off healing clime.
Mortal! o'er the field of Life?Pressing with uncertain tread;?Mourning, in the torrent strife,?Blessings lost and pleasures fled;--
A sublimer faith was taught?By the maniac's frenzied eye,?Than Philosophy e'er caught?From intensest thought and high.
When the heart is crushed and broken?By the death-bell's sullen chime,?By the faded friendship's token,?Or the wild remorse of crime,
Turn to earth for succor never,?But beyond her light and shade,?Toward the blue skies look forever:?God, and God alone, can aid.
THE VOICE OF THE DEAD.
Oh! call us not silent,?The throng of the dead!?Though in visible being?No longer we tread?The pathways of earth,?From the grave and the sky,?From the halls of the Past?And the star-host on high,?We speak to the spirit?In language divine;?List, Mortal, our song,?Ere its burden be thine.
Our labor is finished,?Our race it is run;?The guerdon eternal?Is lost or is won;?A beautiful gift?Is the life thou dost share;?Bewail not its sorrow,?Despise not its care;?The rainbow