Part 38 (1/2)

Murmuring this sad and low refrain, As cold and chill as winter rain-- ”He's falser than human tongue can tell.”

September's sun with yellow heat, Fell burning where the waves had beat With restless motion, against the sh.o.r.e, And music like unto that of yore, When a tiny speck in the clouds she saw, Moving and nearing the pleasant land Quietly, swiftly, as by a law.

Screening her brown eyes with her hand, She saw it strike the pebbled sand, And heard a glad shout cleave the air, And saw a n.o.ble, manly form, With locks of silvered raven hair, And a heart with love and pa.s.sion warm.

She held her breath in silent dread, The crimson from her soft cheek fled, Low at her feet he knelt;-- ”No welcome for the leal and true?

Speak, darling, speak! it is my due, Back through the years I've come to you Faithful as when I went!”

”No answer still? my love, oh, why No answer to my pleading cry?”

Thou'rt dead! Why have I lived for this?

To gain a life of s.h.i.+pwrecked bliss?

To distant lands to roam and then Dead lips to welcome me again?

A funeral train,--all mourners great, Pall-bearers clothed in robes of state, The form they love more fair in death Than when 'twas warmed by living breath, A haughty man with silvered hair, Among the strangers gathered there;-- A rose dropped by an unknown hand With perfume from a foreign land, Upon the casket lid,-- A s.h.i.+p at anchor in the bay, That in the evening bore away A form that landed yesterday.

THE OLD FAs.h.i.+ON.

”The old, old fas.h.i.+on,--Death! Oh, thank G.o.d, all who see it, for that older fas.h.i.+on yet, of Immortality!”

--d.i.c.kens.

Despite all human pa.s.sion, And all that we can do,-- There is an old, old fas.h.i.+on That comes to me and you.

It has come to me so often That I know its meaning well, Nothing its pain can soften Nothing its power can quell.

When the battle-field was silent, Gone to their final rest, Dead in their last encampment Lay the ones I loved the best.

And then, when my heart was lightest, It came with a snake-like tread, And darkened the day that was brightest, Then left me with my dead.

It came in the wild March weather With bl.u.s.ter of storm and sleet, And stilled in our home forever The patter of boyish feet.

And then,--G.o.d pity my treason, When life again had smiled, It came in the holiday season And took from me my child.

”Give thanks for the old, old fas.h.i.+on,”

No, that can never be.

Where is the Divine compa.s.sion That G.o.d has shown to me?

Fling wide each s.h.i.+ning portal,-- Let me--a sinner through,-- Thank G.o.d for the immortal Is all that I can do.

No prayer of love or pa.s.sion Can give my dead to me, But I bless the old, old fas.h.i.+on, Of immortality.

MY BABY AND THE ROSE.