Stories in Verse | Page 2

black valleys,?Joined in the conflict too.
The clouds were jellied amber;?The crickets in the grass?Blew pipe and hammered tabor,?And laughed to see me pass.
The cows down in the pasture,?The mowers in the field,?The birds that sang in heaven,?Their happiness revealed.
My heart was light and joyful,?I could not answer why;?And I thought that it was better?Always to smile than sigh.
How could I hope to meet her?Whom most I wished to meet??If always I had lost her,?Then life were incomplete.
The road ran o'er a brooklet;?Upon the bridge she stood,?With wild flowers in her ringlets,?And in her hand her hood.
The morn laid on her features?An envious golden kiss;?She might have fancied truly,?I longed to share its bliss.
I said, "O, lovely maiden,?I have sought you many a day.?That I love you, love you, love you,?Is all that I can say."
Her mournful eyes grew brighter,?And archly glanced, though meek.?A bacchanalian dimple?Dipt a wine-cup in her cheek.
"If you love me, love me, love me,?If you love me as you say,?You must prove it, prove it, prove it!"?And she lightly turned away.
V.
AN AUNT AND AN UNCLE.
I have but an aunt and an uncle?For kinsfolk on the earth,?And one has passed me unnoticed?And hated me from my birth;?But the first has reared me and taught me,?Whatever I have of worth.
This is my uncle by marriage,?For his wife my aunt had died,?And left him all her possessions,?With much that was mine beside--?'Tis said that he hated her brother,?As much as he loved the bride.
That brother, my father, forgave him,?As his last hour ran its sand,?And begged in return his forgiveness,?As he placed in his sister's hand?The bonds, that when I was twenty,?Should be at my command.
For my mother was dead, God rest her,?And I would be left alone.?The bride to her trust was unfaithful--?Her heart was harder than stone.?And her widowed sister, left childless,?Adopted me as her own.
So we dwelt in opposite houses--?We in a dwelling low,?And he in a brown stone mansion.?I toiled and my gain was slow.?My uncle rode in a carriage?As fine as there was in the row.
Once, in a useless anger,?With courage not mine before,?I bearded the crafty lion,?Demanding my own, no more.?He said the law gave me nothing,?And showed me out of his door.
VI.
MY AUNT INVITES HER IN TO DINE.
This is the place, this is the hour,?And through the shine, or through the shower,?She promised she would come.?O, darling day, she is so sweet?I could kneel down and kiss her feet.?Her presence makes me dumb.
A thousand things that I would say,?And ponder when she is away,?Desert me when she's near--?When she is near--twice we have met!?Though but a month has passed as yet,?It seems almost a year.
O, now she comes, and here she stands,?And gives me hers in both my hands,?And blushes to her brow.?She eyes askance her simple gown,?And folds a Judas tatter down?She has not seen till now.
I said, "My love you made me wait,?I grew almost disconsolate?Thinking you would not come.?Ah, tell me what you have to do,?That makes your duty, sweet, for you?My rival in your home."
"My home!" she answered, "I have none.?For me, 'tis years since there was one,?And that was scarcely mine.?Father and mother both are dead;?I sell sweet flowers to earn my bread--?Their fragrance is my wine.
"Sometimes the house upon the farm,?Sometimes the city's friendly arm,?Shields me from rain and dew.?I did not know that it was late;?The minutes you have had to wait,?Are truly but a few."
A smile shone through her large dark eyes,?As sometimes, in the stormy skies,?The light puts through an arm,?Which, spreading glory far and wide,?Draws the broad curtain cloud aside,?Making the whole earth warm.
She took my arm; we walked away;?We saw, in parks, the fountains play;?My heart was all elate.?I scarcely noticed when I stood,?With my dear waif of womanhood,?Beside our lowly gate.
"You have no home," I gently said,?"But, till the day that we are wed,?And after if you will,?This home, my love, is mine and thine."?My aunt came out and bade us dine--?I see her smiling still.
My Blanche, reluctant, gave consent;?Then 'neath the humble roof we went,?And sat about the board.?I saw how sweet the whole surprise;?I saw her fond uplifted eyes,?Give thanks unto the Lord.
VII.
THE PROPHECY.
There is a prophecy of our line,?Told by some great grand-dame of mine?I once attempted to divine.
'Tis that two children, then unborn,?Would know a wealthy wedding morn,?Or die in poverty forlorn.
These children would be of her name.?If to the bridal bans they came,?The house would gather strength and fame.
But if they came not, woe is me,?The line would ever cease to be,?The wealth would take its wings and flee.
If all the signs are coming true,?I am the child she pictured, who?The name should keep or hide from view.
In our domain of liberty,?Our heed is light of pedigree,?I care not for the prophecy.
For what to me our