Volume I Part 75 (1/2)
EMILIA
Halfway up the Hemlock valley turnpike, In the bend of Silver Water's arm, Where the deer come trooping down at even, Drink the cowslip pool, and fear no harm, Dwells Emilia, Flower of the fields of Camlet Farm.
Sitting sewing by the western window As the too brief mountain suns.h.i.+ne flies, Hast thou seen a slender-shouldered figure With a chestnut braid, Minerva-wise, Round her temples, Shadowing her gray, enchanted eyes?
When the freshets flood the Silver Water, When the swallow flying northward braves Sleeting rains that sweep the birchen foothills Where the windflowers' pale plantation waves-- (Fairy gardens Springing from the dead leaves in their graves),--
Falls forgotten, then, Emilia's needle; Ancient ballads, fleeting through her brain, Sing the cuckoo and the English primrose, Outdoors calling with a quaint refrain; And a rainbow Seems to brighten through the gusty rain.
Forth she goes, in some old dress and faded, Fearless of the showery s.h.i.+fting wind; Kilted are her skirts to clear the mosses, And her bright braids in a 'kerchief pinned, Younger sister Of the damsel-errant Rosalind.
While she helps to serve the harvest supper In the lantern-lighted village hall, Moonlight rises on the burning woodland, Echoes dwindle from the distant Fall.
Hark, Emilia!
In her ear the airy voices call.
Hidden papers in the dusty garret, Where her few and secret poems lie,-- Thither flies her heart to join her treasure, While she serves, with absent-musing eye, Mighty tankards Foaming cider in the gla.s.ses high.
”Would she mingle with her young companions!”
Vainly do her aunts and uncles say; Ever, from the village sports and dances, Early missed, Emilia slips away.
Whither vanished?
With what unimagined mates to play?
Did they seek her, wandering by the water, They should find her comrades shy and strange: Queens and princesses, and saints and fairies, Dimly moving in a cloud of change:-- Desdemona; Mariana of the Moated Grange.
Up this valley to the fair and market When young farmers from the southward ride, Oft they linger at a sound of chanting In the meadows by the turnpike side; Long they listen, Deep in fancies of a fairy bride.
Sarah N. Cleghorn [1876-
TO A GREEK GIRL
With breath of thyme and bees that hum, Across the years you seem to come,-- Across the years with nymph-like head, And wind-blown brows unfilleted; A girlish shape that slips the bud In lines of unspoiled symmetry; A girlish shape that stirs the blood With pulse of Spring, Autonoe!
Where'er you pa.s.s,--where'er you go, I hear the pebbly rillet flow; Where'er you go,--where'er you pa.s.s, There comes a gladness on the gra.s.s; You bring blithe airs where'er you tread,-- Blithe airs that blow from down and sea; You wake in me a Pan not dead,-- Not wholly dead!--Autonoe!
How sweet with you on some green sod To wreathe the rustic garden-G.o.d; How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade With you to weave a basket-braid; To watch across the stricken chords Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee; To woo you in soft woodland words, With woodland pipe, Autonoe!
In vain,--in vain! The years divide: Where Thamis rolls a murky tide, I sit and fill my painful reams, And see you only in my dreams;-- A vision, like Alcestis, brought From under-lands of Memory,-- A dream of Form in days of Thought,-- A dream,--a dream, Autonoe!