Fleurs De Lys, and Other Poems Part 4

_ 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 pa.s.sionate 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 n.o.ble 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 gra.s.s, And laid its chilling, fingers on our pulse.

Sea nettles lay in many a shapeless ma.s.s, 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 and kissed away thy lingering tears; While ever plunged the billows on the beach And sent their dreary cadence to our ears.

The sun was swimming in the purple tide, His golden locks far floating on the sea, When I stole forth yestre'en and sat beside The stranded wreck to dream again of thee.

Across my cheek I felt the marsh wind sweep, Still called the sea along the darkening sh.o.r.e, Again the changeless stars began to peep; Naught save thyself had changed since days of yore.

O! happy period of my early youth!

When Love was master, Reason but a slave, When friends seemed heroes, woman crystal truth, Success the certain portion of the brave: Come back, come back and give me ere I die The pure ideal of my life again!

In vain I plead. Time's snowy ashes lie Cold on the hearth-stone of my aged brain.

_AT CHATEAUGUAY._

Memory gleams like a gem at night Through the gloom of to-day for me, Bringing dreams of a summer bright At Chateauguay.

Summer sleeps in the ripening corn, Sunlight glitters on wood and lea, Scent of flowers on the air is borne At Chateauguay.

Swiftly rushes the river by, Through the lake to the far-off sea, Full of light as a maiden's eye, At Chateauguay.

Stands a house by the river side, (Weeds upspring where the hearth should be), Only its tottering walls abide At Chateauguay.

Birds are singing the live-long day, Trembling, stoopeth an aspen tree.

Eager to hear what the wind will say At Chateauguay.

Still the sunlight around me falls, Still in fancy I seem to see Two who stand on the crumbling walls At Chateauguay.

Once more wanders a brown-eyed maid Up the rough, country road with me, Swinging her hat by its slender braid, At Chateauguay.

Once for a moment more we stay Under the tattling aspen tree-- Birds are sweetly lilting to-day At Chateauguay.