Songs In Many Keys | Page 3

done?They caught her unaware;?As, humbly, like a praying nun,?She knelt upon the stair;
Bent o'er the steps, with lowliest mien?She knelt, but not to pray,--?Her little hands must keep them clean,?And wash their stains away.
A foot, an ankle, bare and white,?Her girlish shapes betrayed,--?"Ha! Nymphs and Graces!" spoke the Knight;?"Look up, my beauteous Maid!"
She turned,--a reddening rose in bud,?Its calyx half withdrawn,--?Her cheek on fire with damasked blood?Of girlhood's glowing dawn!
He searched her features through and through,?As royal lovers look?On lowly maidens, when they woo?Without the ring and book.
"Come hither, Fair one! Here, my Sweet!?Nay, prithee, look not down!?Take this to shoe those little feet,"--?He tossed a silver crown.
A sudden paleness struck her brow,--?A swifter blush succeeds;?It burns her cheek; it kindles now?Beneath her golden beads.
She flitted, but the glittering eye?Still sought the lovely face.?Who was she? What, and whence? and why?Doomed to such menial place?
A skipper's daughter,--so they said,--?Left orphan by the gale?That cost the fleet of Marblehead?And Gloucester thirty sail.
Ah! many a lonely home is found?Along the Essex shore,?That cheered its goodman outward bound,?And sees his face no more!
"Not so," the matron whispered,--"sure?No orphan girl is she,--?The Surriage folk are deadly poor?Since Edward left the sea,
"And Mary, with her growing brood,?Has work enough to do?To find the children clothes and food?With Thomas, John, and Hugh.
"This girl of Mary's, growing tall,--?(Just turned her sixteenth year,)--?To earn her bread and help them all,?Would work as housemaid here."
So Agnes, with her golden beads,?And naught beside as dower,?Grew at the wayside with the weeds,?Herself a garden-flower.
'T was strange, 't was sad,--so fresh, so fair!?Thus Pity's voice began.?Such grace! an angel's shape and air!?The half-heard whisper ran.
For eyes could see in George's time,?As now in later days,?And lips could shape, in prose and rhyme,?The honeyed breath of praise.
No time to woo! The train must go?Long ere the sun is down,?To reach, before the night-winds blow,?The many-steepled town.
'T is midnight,--street and square are still;?Dark roll the whispering waves?That lap the piers beneath the hill?Ridged thick with ancient graves.
Ah, gentle sleep! thy hand will smooth?The weary couch of pain,?When all thy poppies fail to soothe?The lover's throbbing brain!
'T is morn,--the orange-mantled sun?Breaks through the fading gray,?And long and loud the Castle gun?Peals o'er the glistening bay.
"Thank God 't is day!" With eager eye?He hails the morning shine:--?"If art can win, or gold can buy,?The maiden shall be mine!"
PART THIRD
THE CONQUEST
"Who saw this hussy when she came??What is the wench, and who?"?They whisper. "Agnes--is her name??Pray what has she to do?"
The housemaids parley at the gate,?The scullions on the stair,?And in the footmen's grave debate?The butler deigns to share.
Black Dinah, stolen when a child,?And sold on Boston pier,?Grown up in service, petted, spoiled,?Speaks in the coachman's ear:
"What, all this household at his will??And all are yet too few??More servants, and more servants still,--?This pert young madam too!"
"Servant! fine servant!" laughed aloud?The man of coach and steeds;?"She looks too fair, she steps too proud,?This girl with golden beads!
"I tell you, you may fret and frown,?And call her what you choose,?You 'll find my Lady in her gown,?Your Mistress in her shoes!"
Ah, gentle maidens, free from blame,?God grant you never know?The little whisper, loud with shame,?That makes the world your foe!
Why tell the lordly flatterer's art,?That won the maiden's ear,--?The fluttering of the frightened heart,?The blush, the smile, the tear?
Alas! it were the saddening tale?That every language knows,--?The wooing wind, the yielding sail,?The sunbeam and the rose.
And now the gown of sober stuff?Has changed to fair brocade,?With broidered hem, and hanging cuff,?And flower of silken braid;
And clasped around her blanching wrist?A jewelled bracelet shines,?Her flowing tresses' massive twist?A glittering net confines;
And mingling with their truant wave?A fretted chain is hung;?But ah! the gift her mother gave,--?Its beads are all unstrung!
Her place is at the master's board,?Where none disputes her claim;?She walks beside the mansion's lord,?His bride in all but name.
The busy tongues have ceased to talk,?Or speak in softened tone,?So gracious in her daily walk?The angel light has shown.
No want that kindness may relieve?Assails her heart in vain,?The lifting of a ragged sleeve?Will check her palfrey's rein.
A thoughtful calm, a quiet grace?In every movement shown,?Reveal her moulded for the place?She may not call her own.
And, save that on her youthful brow?There broods a shadowy care,?No matron sealed with holy vow?In all the land so fair
PART FOURTH
THE RESCUE
A ship comes foaming up the bay,?Along the pier she glides;?Before her furrow melts away,?A courier mounts and rides.
"Haste, Haste, post Haste!" the letters bear;?"Sir Harry Frankland, These."?Sad news to tell the loving pair!?The knight must cross the seas.
"Alas! we part!"--the lips that spoke?Lost all their rosy red,?As when a crystal cup is broke,?And all its wine is shed.
"Nay, droop not thus,--where'er," he cried,?"I go by land or sea,?My love, my life, my joy, my pride,?Thy place is still by me!"
Through town and