He in rank so far above me;
And when I, with cheeks aglow,
Told him that it was not meet
He should wed with one so low,
He should wed with one so low,
Then he said, in accents sweet,
"Far be thoughts of rank or pelf;
Dear, I love thee for thyself!"
Happy, happy Barbara!
THE CONFESSION
I am glad that you have come,
Arthur, from the dusty town;
You must throw aside your cares,
And relax your legal frown.
Coke and Littleton, avaunt!
You have ruled him through the day;
In this quiet, sylvan haunt,
Be content to yield your sway.
It is pleasant, is it not,
Sitting here beneath the trees,
While the restless wind above
Ripples over leafy seas?
Often, when the twilight falls,
In the shadow, quite alone,
I have sat till starlight came,
Listening to its monotone.
Yet not always quite alone,—
Brother, let me take the place
Just behind you now the moon
Shines no longer in my face.
It is near two months ago
Since I met him, as I think,
By God's mercy, when my horse
Trembled on the river's brink.
I had fallen, but his arm
Firmly seized the bridle-rein,
And, with one decided grasp,
Drew me back to life again.
I was grateful and essayed
Fitting words my thanks to speak.
Arthur, when the heart feels most,
Words, I think, are oftenest weak.
So I stammered and I fear,
What I said had little grace
But I knew he understood,
By the smile upon his face.
There are faces—his was such—
That are sealed when in repose;
Only when a smile floods out,
All the soul in beauty glows.
With that smile I grew content,
And my heart grew strangely calm,
As with trustful step I walked,
My arm resting on his arm.
Brother, turn your face away,
So, dear, I can tell you best
All that followed; but be sure
You are looking to the west.
Arthur, I have seen him since,
Nearly every day, until
If I lose him, all my life
Would grow wan, and dark, and chill.
Brother, this my love impute
Not to me for maiden-shame;
He has sought me for his wife,
He would crown me with his name.
Only yesterday he said
That my love his life would bless:
Would I grant it? Arthur, dear,
Was I wrong in saying "Yes"?
ROSE IN THE GARDEN
THIRTY years have come and gone,
Melting away like Southern Snows,
Since, in the light of a summer's night,
I went to the garden to seek my Rose.
Mine! Do you hear it, silver moon,
Flooding my heart with your mellow shine?
Mine! Be witness, ye distant stars,
Looking on me with eyes divine!
Tell me, tell me, wandering winds,
Whisper it, if you may not speak—
Did you ever, in all your round,
Fan a lovelier brow or cheek?
Long I nursed in my heart the love,
Love which felt, but dared not tell,
Till, I scarcely know how or when—
It found wild words,—and all was well!
I can hear her sweet voice even now—
It makes my pulses leap and thrill—
"I owe you more than I well can pay;
You may take me, Robert, if you will!"
One pleasant summer night,
the garden walks alone,
Looking about with restless eyes,
Wondering whither my Rose had flown,
Till, from a leafy arbor near,
There came to my ears the sound of speech.
Who can be with Rose to night?
Let me hide me under the beach.
It must be one of her female friends,
Talking with her in the gloaming gray;
Perchance—I thought—they may speak of me;
Let me listen to what they say.
This I said with a careless smile,
And a joyous heart that was free from fears;
Little I dreamed that the words I heard
Would weigh on my heavy heart for years.