Poems by Marietta Holley Part 9

Isabelle has gold, and lands, Fate gave her a fair lot; Like the white lilies of the field Her soft hands toil not.

I gaze upon her splendor Without an envious sigh; I have no wealth in lands and gold, And yet sweet peace have I.

I know the blue sky smiles as bright On the low field violet, As on the proud crest of the pine On loftiest mountain set.

I am content--G.o.d loveth all, And if He tenderly The sparrow guides, He knoweth best The place where I should be.

Her violet velvet curtains trail Down to the floor, But brightly G.o.d's rich suns.h.i.+ne streams Into my cottage door; And not a picture on her walls, Hath beauty unto me, Like that which from my window frame I daily lean to see.

She has known such pomp, she careth not, For any humble sight; Flowers bending o'er the brook's green edge, To her give no delight; She tends her costly eastern bird With gold upon its wing; But her wild roses bloom for me, For me her wild birds sing.

She tires of home, and fain would see The brightest clime of earth, And so she sails for summer lands With friends to share her mirth; She waves her jewelled hand to me The opal spray-clouds fly; She leaves me with the fading sh.o.r.e-- Do I envy her? not I.

She will see the sailor's hardened palms Curbing the toiling sails, She will faint beneath the tropic calms And face the angry gales.

She will labor for her happiness While I've no need to speak, But on a lotus leaf I float, Unto the land they seek.

There, like a dream from out the wave, I see a city rise, I stand entranced, as by a spell, Upon the Bridge of Sighs.

The low and measured dip of oars Falls softly on my ear Blent with the tender evening song, Of some swart gondolier.

And down from marble terraces Veiled ladies slowly pa.s.s, And, entering antique barges, Glide down the streets of gla.s.s; And eyes filled with the dew and fire Of their own midnight sky, Gleam full on me, as silently The gondolas float by.

The sunset burns, and turns the wave To an enchanted stream, And far up on the shadowy steeps The white walled convents gleam, The music of their bells float out-- The sweet wind bears it by, Adown the warm and sunny slopes, Where purple vineyards lie.

And I stand in old cathedrals, By tombs of buried kings, White angels bend above them-- Mute guard with folded wings.

Far down the aisle the organ peals, The priests are knelt in prayer And memories flood its ancient walls, As the music fills the air.

I may not see that blessed land, But she roams o'er the sod The Lord's pure eyes have hallowed, Where once His feet have trod.

Yet He in mercy has drawn near, He has me comforted-- So near He seemed I almost felt His hand upon my head.

And I with slow and reverent steps Through ancient cities roam, Treading o'er crumbling columns, The dust of spire and dome; The tall and shattered arches Their flickering shadows cast, Like bent and h.o.a.ry spectres, Low murmuring of the past.

And Isabelle toils o'er the Alps, Through fields of ice and snow, To see the lofty glaciers Flash in the sun's red glow.

I feel no cold, and yet on high Their s.h.i.+ning spires I see.

Why should I envy Isabelle?

Why should she pity me?

Why should I envy Isabelle When thus so easily, Upon a tropic flower's perfume I float across the sea?

GOOD-BY.

Again I see that May moon s.h.i.+ne, Dost thou remember, soul of mine?

I held your hand in mine, you know, And as I bent to whisper low, A tender light was in your eye, "Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by."

There came a time my lips were white Beneath the pale and cold moonlight, And burning words I might not speak, You read, love, in my ashen cheek, As my whole heart breathed in this one cry, "Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by."

Time's waves that roll so swift and fleet Have borne you far from me, my sweet, Have borne you to a sunny bay, Where brightest suns.h.i.+ne gilds your way, Do these words ever dim your sky-- Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by?

I cannot tell, but this I know They go with me where'er I go, I hear them in the crowded mart, At midnight lone, they chill my heart-- They dim for me the earth and sky, Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart good-by.

And in that hour of mystery, When loved ones shall bend over me, Near ones to kiss my lips and weep, As nearer steals the dreamless sleep, From all I'll turn with this last sigh, "Sweetheart, good-by, sweetheart, good-by."

THE SEA-CAPTAIN'S WOOING.

Put the crown of your love on my forehead, Its sweet links clasped with a kiss, And all the great monarchs of England Never wore such a gem as this.

Give me your hand, little maiden, That sceptre so pearly white, And I'll envy not the kingliest wand That ever waved in might.

I know 'tis like asking a morning cloud With a grim old mountain to stay, But your love would soften its ruggedness, And melt its roughness away.

I have seen a delicate rosy cloud, A rough, gray cliff enfold, Till his heart was warmed by its loveliness, And his brow was tinged with its gold.

Oh, poor and mean does my life show Compared with the beauty of thine, Like a diamond embedded in granite Your life would be set in mine; But a faithful love should guard you, And shelter you from life's storm, The rock must be s.h.i.+vered to atoms Ere its treasure should come to harm.

How your sweet face has shone on me From the tropics' midnight sea, When the sailors slept, and I kept watch Alone with my G.o.d and thee.

I know your heart is relenting, The tender look in your eyes Seems like that sky's soft splendor When the sun was beginning to rise.

You need not veil their glorious light With your eyelids' cloud of snow, A tell-tale bird with a crimson wing On your cheek flies to and fro; And whispers to me such blissful hope That my foolish tears will start, Ah, little bird! your fluttering wing Is folded on my heart.

IONE.

I might strive as well to melt to softness the soulless breast Of some fair and saintly image, carven out of stone, With my smile, as to stir you heart from its icy rest, Or win a tender glance from your royal eyes, Ione; But your sad smile lures me on, as toward some fatal rock Is the fond wave drawn, but to break with pa.s.sionate moan.

Break! to be spurned from its cold feet with a stony shock, As you would spurn my suppliant heart from your feet, Ione.

Ione, there is a grave in the churchyard under the hill, The villagers shun like the unblest haunt of a ghost, Dropped there out of a dark spring night, I remember still, For a foreign s.h.i.+p had anch.o.r.ed that night on the coast; On the gray stone tablet is written this one word "Rest."

Did he who sleeps underneath seek for it vainly here?

What is the secret hidden there in the buried breast, The secret deeper sunken by dripping rains each year.

When autumn's bending boughs and harvests burdened the ground An early laborer, chancing to pa.s.s that way alone, Saw a small glove gleaming whitely upon the mound, And into the delicate wrist was woven "Ione,"

And he said as he dropped it again his eye did mark-- For this unknown, unhallowed grave had been shunned by all-- A narrow footpath winding through to the lofty wall, That guards the wild grandeur and gloom of your father's park.

'Tis well to put small faith in a simple rustic's eye, This story your father heard, and haughtily denied, The gra.s.s waves rankly now, and gives the fellow the lie, How many secrets the tall, deceitful gra.s.ses hide, Patting the turf that covers a maiden's innocent rest, And creeping and winding old haunted ruins among, As silently smooth's the mould above the murdered breast, Smothering down to deeper silence a buried wrong.

In your father's gallery once, I saw your pictured face, Ione you were not always so sad and pale as this, No beauty in all the long line of your n.o.ble race Had eyes so softly bathed in bright bewitchment of bliss, You were just nineteen, they said--it was painted in Spain The year before you came--it was on your foreign tour, By an artist too low to be reached by your disdain, A delicate, pa.s.sionate-hearted boy, proud and poor.

So said the rumors floating to us across the sea, You had only an invalid mother with you there, I fancy that then you set your heart's pure feelings free For the first time, far from your proud old father's care, For you used to wander down the shaded garden ways, Your slight hand closely clasped by the fair-haired English youth, His blue eyes bent on your blus.h.i.+ng face, so rumor says, Though such light birds are not to be trusted much in truth.

Your face is not the face that looked from the antique frame, Ione, and even that is gone from the oaken wall; That picture that never was painted for gold or fame, So vowed the artist friend who went with me to the hall; But the pain on your white brow sits regally I ween, The smile on your perfect lips is perilously sweet, My slavish glances crown you my love, my fate, my queen, As you pa.s.s in peerless beauty adown the village street.

SUMMER DAYS.

Like emerald lakes the meadows lie, And daisies dot the main; The sunbeams from the deep blue sky Drop down in golden rain, And gild the lily's silver bell, And coax buds apart, But I miss the suns.h.i.+ne of my youth, The summer of my heart.