Poems of the Heart and Home Part 24

We each caught a hand cold and dripping, And drew the poor trembler in; But she sank at our feet like a baby, Half-frozen, and drenched to the skin.

John ran for our last bit of fuel; And I, to an old box, where lay Our own little Maggie's warm clothing,-- Our Maggie--dead many a day!

I tore off her old, dripping tatters, And rubbed her blue, s.h.i.+vering form; And then put those precious clothes on her, And made her all glowing and warm.

"O ma'am, if you please, I'm _so_ hungry!"

Again the dear innocent said; So John brought our two cold potatoes And our one little morsel of bread.

"Here, take this,"--he said; and she s.n.a.t.c.hed it, And ate till the last bit was done; And we two looked on, never grudging Our all to the famis.h.i.+ng one.

I looked up a half-minute after, But John had slipped out in the rain; And the wind was still howling and raging Like some great, cruel monster in pain.

Soon the pale, little eyelids grew heavy, And I watched till the weary one slept;-- Then I, a poor weak-hearted woman, Held her closer, and oh, how I wept!

With our fire all burned out to black ashes,-- Our very last bit of food gone,-- Poor John, too, out facing the tempest,-- And I left there s.h.i.+v'ring alone!

But the little, warm head on my bosom Seemed so strangely like hers that I lost; And the soft, little hands I was holding, So like the dear hands that I crossed In their last quiet rest,--and those garments-- _Ah, those garments!_--I mused till it seemed, I had got back my own little Maggie;-- And then, for long hours. I dreamed.

"Why Lucy, my girl, you are sleeping!-- Come, rouse up, and get us some tea!"-- It was John, who'd returned, and was speaking-- "Poor wife, you're as cold as can be!

See, here are some coals for the firing; And here is a nice loaf of bread,-- A steak, and a morsel of b.u.t.ter, Some tea and some sugar"--he said.

"Nay now, do not ask any questions!-- Let me just lay this lammie in bed, And when we have had a nice supper, I'll tell you, dear, all how it sped."

And so, when the supper was over-- That supper!--I'll never forget The warm, glowing fire--oh, so cozy-- I can see every coal of it yet-- We knelt down, and John thanked the dear Father For all He had sent us that day;-- Yes: e'en for thee dear, pretty baby His own little lamb gone astray!

And then, in a few words, John told me Of his desperate walk in the storm-- Every minute believing, expecting, That G.o.d would His promise perform;-- Of the merchant up town who had hailed him, (One of his men being sick,) And hired him to run of a message; And, because he'd been trusty and quick, Had trebled his wages, and told him To come the next morning again; "Just because," added John, softly laughing, "I'd been willing _to work in the rain!_"

Well, long ere the morning dawned on us, The child had grown frantic with pain; And for many long days she lay moaning With the fever that burned in her brain.

Every morning John prayed by her pillow, Then went to his work; and I stayed, And kept my sad watch the long day through, And at night he returned to my aid.

At length the fierce struggle was over, She lived, and we both were content, For we knew G.o.d had given her to us-- His lamb, through the wintry storm sent The fever had burned every record Of home and friends out of her mind; And though we sought long, yet we never Any traces of either could find.

And so she grew up by our fireside, And we called her--not Maggie--oh no!-- That name we had laid up in Heaven, And no one must wear it below!-- But we just called her, Pet; and her husband Calls her nothing but Pet to this day:-- She's a grown woman now, and a mother, How swiftly the years glide away!

Well, John never has lacked for employment, And we never have wanted a home; We never said nay to a beggar, Or refused one that asked it a crumb.

Pet grew up a dear, loving woman-- "G.o.d's light in our house," John would say-- And when a good man came and took her, He took _us_, too, the very same day.

But here she comes now with the baby, And grandmother never says nay; So here's a good bye to my story, For baby has come for a play!

STAY, MOTHER, STAY!

"Stay, mother, stay, for the storm is abroad, And the tempest is very wild; It's a fearful night with no ray of light, Oh stay with your little child!"

"Hush darling!" the mother, with white lips said-- "Lie still till I come again, G.o.d's angels blest will watch o'er thy rest While I am abroad in the rain!

Thy father, child?--oh, I quake with fear When I think where he may be, And I dare not stay till the dawn of day-- I must hasten forth to see!"

Then the young child buried her tangled curls In the ragged counterpane, While the half-clad mother went forth alone In the blinding wind and rain.

Down many a narrow, slippery lane, Down many a long, dark street, Went that s.h.i.+vering form thro' the pelting storm Of wind, and rain, and sleet; Till, nearing a den where inebriate men, With Baccha.n.a.l oath and yell, And curse and jeer, spent the midnight drear, She reeled in the gloom and fell; For a prostrate form, in the pitiless storm And inky darkness, lay Helpless and p.r.o.ne on the pavement-stone, Across her desolate way.

She knelt alone by the fallen one, And murmured in accents low, A name, how dear to her girlhood's ear In the beautiful long ago!

But no voice, no tone replied to her own, And the cold hand fell like lead; And her wailing cry brought back no reply, As she shrieked "he is dead!--he's dead!"

Aye, "dead!"--G.o.d pity thee, stricken wife!

G.o.d pity thee, orphan child!

Poor slave to wine, what a death was thine, In that wintry tempest wild!

We know not how long that wild, drunken song And those curses a.s.sailed her ear, But the morning-ray found its early way To one who no more could hear; For the faithful heart that had borne its part Awhile, through those watches lone, Had grown still it last as the pitiless blast Swept by her with wrathful tone;-- But the rumseller-he slept quietly In his chamber of gilded pride, For little he cared how his victims fared, Or whether they lived or died!

Oh! the old, old strain with its old refrain, Of agony, death, and woe!-- Oh! the bitter tears that, through all the years, Have been flowing, and ever flow!

Must the ghastly tragedy never cease?

Will Manhood never awake?

And, by G.o.d's great might made strong for the right.

Stand up for Humanity's sake, And wipe the horrible stain away From his country and his home-- The dark, ensangnined, loathsome stain Of the merciless monster, Rum?

TIME FOR BED

"Time for bed!"--the weary day With its toils has pa.s.sed away Sol has wrapped his forehead bright In the curtains of the night, And his glorious lamp again Lowered behind the western main Leaving all heaven's pure expanse Radiant with his parting glance

Just a few, faint stars are seen Ranged around the midnight queen-- A select and glorious band Who alone may waiting stand Hound the monarch of the night, Bearing up their urns of light, Her majestic path to cheer Till the shadows disappear.

"Time for bed!" the folded flowers Hang their heads in forest bowers; Nestled in each downy nest Day's sweet songsters calmly rest; And the night-bird's plaintive hymn Echoes through the forest dim; Dew-drops on the birchen-bough In the star-beams sparkle now, Scarce a zephyr stirs the rose So profound is Earth's repose.

"Time for bed!" put by thy books, Learner, with thy studious looks;-- Poet, lay the pen away, Candle-light will spoil thy lay;-- Leave it till the morning hours Come with suns.h.i.+ne to the flowers,-- Leave it till from shrub and tree Birds pour forth their minstrelsy,-- Till the sun on wood and wold Turns the drops of dew to gold,-- Till the bee comes forth to sip Nectar from the flow'rets lip,-- Till the light-winged zephyrs wake Dancing ripples on the lake, And the cloudlets in the height Don their fleecy robes of white;-- Then, with graceful Euterpe, Seek the spreading greenwood tree, And with joy, and light, and love, AH around thee and above, Tune thy lyre to praiseful mirth With all happy things of Earth!

"Time for bed!"--thou man of toil, Why consume the midnight oil?-- Night was made for slumbers blest, Thou art weary, therefore rest!

"Time for bed!"--poor "Martha," thou Long enough hast labored now; All the day's bright hours are numbered, Yet art thou "with toiling c.u.mbered."

Lay that tedious work away Till the blest return of day,-- Thou art care-worn and oppressed, Thou art weary "Martha," rest!

"Time for bed!"--shut up the stove, To its place the table move, Lay the books into their case, Wheel the sofa to its place, Wind the clock, brush up the floor, Close the shutters, lock the door, That will do--put out the light, Toil and trouble, all good night!

FROM THE OLD TO THE NEW

LINES FOR THE NEW YEAR

I hear the beat of the unresting tide On either sh.o.r.e as swiftly on I glide With eager haste the narrow channel o'er, Which links the floods behind with those before.

I hear behind me as I onward glide, Faint, farewell voices blending with the tide, While from beyond, now near, now far away, Come stronger voices chiding each delay; And drowning, oft, with wild, discordant burst, The melancholy minor of the first

"Farewell! farewell!--ye leave us far behind you!"-- Tis thus the bright-winged Hours sigh from the Past-- "Ye leave us, and the coming ones will find you Still vainly dreaming they will ever last,-- Still trifling with the gifts all fresh and glowing, Each in its turn will scatter in your way,-- Still chasing airy phantoms, though well-knowing That, ere you grasp them, they will melt away-- Farewell! farewell!"