Part 24 (1/2)
Look at her closely, is she not fair, With exquisite features, rich silken hair And the beautiful, child-like, trusting eyes Of one in the world's ways still unwise.
The wreath late carefully placed on her brow She has flung on a distant foot-stool now; The flowers, exhaling their fragrance sweet, Lie crushed and withering at her feet; Gloves and tablets she has suffered to fall-- She seems so weary after the ball!
Ah, more than weary! How still and white, With rose-tipped fingers entwined so tight: A grieved, pained look on that forehead fair, One which it never before did wear, And soft eyes gleam through a mist of tears, Telling of secret misgivings and fears.
Say, what is it all? Why, some April care, Or some childish trifle, baseless as air; For the griefs that call forth girlhood's tears Would but win a smile in maturer years, When the heart has learned, 'mid pain and strife, Far sterner lessons from the book of life.
Ah! far better for thee, poor child, I ween, Had thy night been spent in some calmer scene, Communing with volume or friend at will, Or in innocent slumber, calm and still; Thou would'st not feel so heart-weary of all As thou to night thou feelest, ”after the ball!”
THE YOUNG NOVICE.
The lights yet gleamed on the holy shrine, the incense hung around, But the rites were o'er, the silent church re-echoed to no sound; Yet kneeling there on the altar steps, absorbed in ardent prayer, Is a girl, as seraph meek and pure--as seraph heav'nly fair.
The blue eyes, veiled by the lashes long that rest on that bright cheek Are humbly bent, while the snow-white hands are clasped in fervor meek, While in the cla.s.sic lip and brow, each feature of that face, And graceful high-bred air, is seen she comes of n.o.ble race.
But, say, what means that dusky robe, that dark and flowing veil, The silver cross--oh! need we ask? they tell at once their tale: They say that, following in the path that fair as she have trod, She hath renounced a fleeting world, to give herself to G.o.d.
Her sinless heart to no gay son of this earth hath she given, Her's is a higher, holier lot, to be the Bride of Heaven; And the calm peace of the cloister's walls, abode of humble worth, Is the fit home for that spotless dove, too fair, too pure for earth.
THE TRANSPLANTED ROSE TREE.
Amid the flowers of a garden glade A lovely rose tree smiled, And the sunbeams shone, the zephyrs played, 'Round the gardens favorite child; And the diamond dew-drops glistening fell On each rose's silken vest, Whilst light winged bee and b.u.t.terfly gay On the soft leaves loved to rest.
But one morn while a sunbeam bright Lit up its delicate bloom, And a zephyr lightly hovered 'round, On wings of sweet perfume, A strong hand came, and ruthlessly Tore up the parent tree, And bore it off, with each fair young rose, From b.u.t.terfly, zephyr and bee.
What mattered it that an antique vase Of _Sevres_ costly and old, Was destined, henceforth, in royal State, Its fair young form to hold?
What mattered it that the richest silks Of the far famed Indian loom, With priceless marbles paintings rare, Adorned its prison room?
It even pined for the garden free, For its pleasant friends of yore, And brooded over the bitter thought, It would never see them more: And its young head daily lowlier drooped Upon its sorrowing breast, While it chafed against the kindly hand That tended and caressed.
But Autumn came with angry storms, With clouded and wintry skies-- Rudely it touched the lovely flowers, And withered their brilliant dyes; The sunbeam false hid its glowing glance, Or with chilling coldness shone; The zephyr fled to Southern climes, And the flowers died alone
Then the rose tree looked on the gloomy earth, On each withered tree and flower, And it warmly blessed the loving care Of its new, protecting power:-- No more it mourned past Summer joys, But brightly blossomed on, With beauty brighter than when once, The garden's queen, it shone.
FLIRTATION.
Yes, leave my side to flirt with Maude, To gaze into her eyes, To whisper in her ear sweet words, And low impa.s.sioned sighs; And though she give you glance for glance, And smile and scheme and plot, You cannot raise a jealous thought, I know you love her not.
Now turn to laughing Lulu, That Witty, gay coquette, With her teeth of s.h.i.+ning pearl, Her eyes and hair of jet: With a mirthful smile imprison Her hand within your own, And softly press it--what care I?
You love but me alone.
To Ida's chair you wander, You're bending o'er her now, Until your own dark curls have brushed Against her queenly brow; In vain she strives to bind you With fascinating spell; For if sharply now I suffer, You suffer too as well.
This fit of gay coquetry Is meant, ah! well I know To avenge my quiet flirting At our ball a night ago, With that winning, handsome stranger,-- Remember, Harry dear, 'Twas yourself who introduced him, Yourself who brought him here.