Glenorie, and other poems

Preface

jl'N presenting the productions of my leisure hours to the public, let me first acknowledge that I am gratefully indebted to "Letters of Travel'^ from several different persons for descriptions of foreign scenes and places. And then, if I have any excuse to offer for my presumption, save that of the love of writing, it is embodied in the extract from a poem, by an author unknown to me, which I place below. M. E. D.

"I cannot sing a truth-inspiring song,

If none on earth will listen.

The angel answered : 'wherefore dost thou sigh ?'

The courser faints not ere his race be run — The meanest blossom may not, cannot die Before its work be done.

If there be none to listen to thy song,

No ears to heed — no loving eyes to glisten — God's little wood — birds sing the whole day long And care not v/ho will listen.

Then lift thy trusting eyes unto the sky,

For heaven, if earth denies, shall give thee hearing, Speak truth undauntedly, and live and die

Life loving, death unfearing."

Contents,

PAGE.

Book Fifth, - - _ _ 142 Spring Welcome, _ _ . _ 187

Dream-land's Rainbow, _ _ _ igo

To Lucy in Heaven, . _ _ _ jg^

My Youngest Niece, _ _ _ ig^

Hope's Palace, - - - - _ xgy

In the Morning, - _ _ _ igS

Consolation, - _ _ _ _ 202

Summer Dreamings, _ _ _ 204

The Three Angels, - _ _ . 207

September Sunset, - - - - 211

Guardian Angels, - - _ _ 214

Spring Zephyrs, - - - - 216

Death of a Sister, - - . . 218

A Rainy Day's Musings, _ _ _ 221

The Bridal, . . _ _ 224

OO'

Sunshine, . . . _

To a Rivulet in Autumn, . _ _ 229

Angel Mary, - - - - - 231

Daily Thought, - _ . _ 234

New Year's Greeting, - _ _ . 238

Contents

PAGE.

Sowing Time, . _ . _ 240

The Old Brown House, - - - - 242

Chapter I

Across New England's rock-ribbed hills, The chill December winds were blowing

The frightened snow, o'er frozen rills And barren fields, once richly glowing

With summer blooms — now past and gone : And lo ! within the valleys And by the road-side alleys — By hedge and fence, they left a heap. Rounded and curved ; no art, complete With practised chisel, could excel These artisans, who wrought so well

And quickly, as they sped along ;

lO GLEONORIE.

Searching each nook and lowly spot, Each towering cliiF or lowly grot, Each tree and shrub, or withered stalk. That summer verdure half forgot — Each, was with feathery plumes embossed, For not one starry flake was lost. And cot and cabin, yard and barn, And spacious house, where safe from harm The wealthy, by their fire-side warm, Were scarcely conscious of the storm — And post and gate, and old stone wall. Village and town, yes, landscape, all Received, likewise, the dainty vesture Of snowy folds, whose manufacture The dull, gray clouds o'erhead would claim, 'Tho' all these wild winds sought the fame.

But evening came at length, and then

The moon, with face all brightly beaming With kindly love for earth, again

Parted the clouds, and thro' the seaming. Sent down into the dark, soft rays ;

Struck with compunction at their beauty, The storm ceased to perform harsh duty ; Hushed all the wild winds' havoc. And drove them to their mountain bivouac, While half in wonder and amaze. The stars began to peep between The parted rifts, upon the scene. They knew it was the Christmas night. And felt the earth should glow with light.

To welcome in the glorious morn

On which her Lord, the Christ, was born ;

So, singing to themselves, the song

The Shepherds heard, in years agone.

They sparkled brighter, on their way

To ope the gate that barred the Day, Where fair Aurora sweetly slumbered, Waiting return of hosts unnumbered.

Of guardian angels from the earth.

To bid her grant the new day birth.

The evening lengthened : but not late—

The clock, a quarter past, along the dial In Edgewood town, from seven to eight.

Dreamed not how very great the trial Of waiting was to little hearts —

So anxious for the morrow.

To wait was vexing sorrow ;

And time, they tho't, was grieving

To keep them from receiving

The favors of St. Nicholas,

The dear, old man, so curious ! How much they wondered at his arts ! And wished they could sit up all night. For then of him, they would gain sight. But sleep at last, their eyes did close, Rest held them in her soft repose. Dream on, fair sleepers, may the morn Bring yoiir bright visions into form ! So not one little heart shall grieve At what St. Nicholas may leave !

Sweet innocents, God bless your rest, Whom angels love may well be blest! Whom angels watch with heavenly care. Ought to be angels here and there ;

And when, called home, they leave us

To sorrow, deep and grievous ;

But sweet to know, in Heaven's bright place. They "do behold our Father's face!"

Yet back we turn to Edgewood town — Dear Edgewood, evermore the glory Of pleasant hills, that rise around

The birth-place of th' young Glenorie ; Of whom, with timorous pen, I write. Along the streets the gleaming Of lighted lamps was streaming ; And soon there came the pealing Of church-bells, softly stealing Along the still and chilly air. Where fell the silver moonbeams, fair And saintly, with their heaven-hued light. Faintly at first, then loud and clear, The bells' rich tones fell on the ear ; And this was what they seemed to call — 'Tis Christmas Eve ! Come one, come all, And list the wonderous story, old. Of Him whom prophets long foretold As King, Messiah! Blessed tho't, "Peace and good will" to earth He bro't! 'Twas love, redeeming love, He gave All sinful souls on earth to save !

GLENORIE.

Come then, rejoice and praise anew

The Lord who bro't such gift to you ! Come, list again, the thrilling story Of Jesus' life and Bethlehem's glory !

Thus rang the bells ; once and again.

And quick the people answered them. Glenorie Lynn in grief, was there,

For lately had her darling mother Deceased ; Glenorie leaving to the care

Of Gilbert Lysle, her only brother. Far distant was his city home.

In which as yet he lingered ; And thus Glenorie mingled With those who came to celebrate This eve, at church. Quite desolate Life seemed to her, a timid orphan. For long before the life immortal Her sire had gained. She felt alone

Amid the crowd. Not strange her tears — So young — for scarcely fifteen years Her life's small circle yet had turned. For love and sympathy she yearned ; But her remembrance of her aunt And cousin rather seemed to daunt Her spirit's wish. Her uncle, grave And stern, thus memory gave His image back to her. With fear And dread, and many a tear. Her tho'ts went forward to that home, 'Mid scenes of life, now all unknown ;

And here, within the church now seated, Her fears again their dread repeated, Till round her all the murmurs ceased. And on her spirit peace was breathed.

All thro' her life Glenorie bore

. Remembrance of that hour's blest lesson ; Oft had she read and heard before,

Christ's birth and life and passion Discoursed of; but her soul, so sad With grief and unsoothed sorrow, Now felt the sunshine of the morrow Beyond Christ's sepulcher : She felt — or thus it seemed to her — As hence she went, no more dejected — That He walked with her, resurrected, And gently said, "Dear child, be glad. That thou, thro' suffering, yet shalt be Perfected : And behold, with thee 'I am alway ;' No bitter cup Thou'lt drink without me, so look up! Be trustful, and where 'er God leads Go cheerfully ! He knows thy needs, And strength will give for every hour, If thou but ask His guiding power!" Thus comforted, that night she dreamed Her mother came and o'er her leaned. Her face changed from its care and weakness. To wonderous beauty — Heaven's sweetness Was in her voice, as she repeated These words : "Dear one ! earth-life completed,

Thou'lt come to me, and see more plain God's love in ministries of pain.''

And when the morning rose to view.

And woke from rest and happy dreaming. The little ones and parents, too,

To Christmas cheer and gifts, bright, beaming, Glenorie far more cheerful seemed

To those with whom she tarrried ; As if the night had carried

. Her former self far, far away. And left instead, that Christmas Day, Another child, with heart far lighter. Her grief was cheered, her hopes were brighter, As her new home before her beamed.

Thus she continued till the day

Her uncle came ; and then the sway

Of peace was ruffled. Must she leave

All that she loved ? The very trees

And dwellings all, in Edgewood town,

Were dear to her ; and tears fell down

For these familiar sights, as well

As friends to whom she bade farewell ;

Then turned to him who hence would be

The only friend that she could see ;

And forth she went to meet new scenes.

That might fulfill or blight her dreams ; For truly, to her girlish vision Life held some dreams with hue elysian.

Forth from her childhood's home she went,

To work her soul's development.

CHAPTER II. Three years, three fairy-footed years !

Three Springs, with all their rich apparel Of bright, green leaves and April tears,

And bird-songs' happy carol, Had flung their glorious beauty down In sunshine and in shadow, O^er hill and spreading meadow. O'er wood and upland swelling. O'er cot and pleasant dwelling, And yet — so runs the story — No more was seen Glenorie, In haunts she loved in Edgewood town. Three summers, too, had laid across Her mother's grave the "gold, green moss," And autumns three had mournful sighed O'er blooms that were those summers' pride ; And yet, no more she came to greet The friends she left. And where her feet Now strayed they none of them could tell ; Or whether she fared ill or well. One letter, only, had she sent, Since to that city home she went. Which said. Some boarding school she soon Would enter, quickly to resume Her education, so neglected ; But which the school had been selected She knew not : Thus the clue was lost Of her, by those she loved the most.

Again the Christmas days have flown,

With memories tender, sweet and holy — Shall we not seek her uncle's home,

And learn where dwells the lost Glenorie ? By steam and rail then swift away We hasten on- the journey A day and night ; the morn returning. We reach a great metropolis — Seek some hotel, and stop at this, To rest awhile ere we proceed To Bedford Square, for there, indeed, Is Gilbert Lysle's abode. To-day A disappointment waits us there. For in that costly home, so fair. We do not find Glenorie. Not Like Cinderilla's there her lot, But love, that makes the heart content. Her aunt and cousin had not lent. Or given, to the mourning child : And tho' her uncle kindly smiled, And tried to cheer her when at home. Her timid heart was very lone, And gladly did she hail the day. That bore her to her school away ; The paths of knowledge there pursuing, She felt again life's hopes renewing, While girlish friendships soothed her grief, And bro't once more peace's olive leaf.

Here sped away, almost, three years. With one or two short visitations

GLENORIE.

At Bedford Square ; for it appears

Home with some friends she spent vacations. Rather than at her uncle's. Now, Her school-days being over, She had received well-earned diploma, • And with her schoolmate, Linda Ware, She came again to Bedford Square ; But only for a few days tarried. For Linda's wishes had been carried Into effect. Glenorie knew not how Unwelcome was her coming home, To cousin Esther. All unknown. The shy, plain-looking child had changed Into a winsome girl ; and Esther, pained With jealous fears, most gladly lent Her influence to obtain consent, When Linda sought of Mr. Lysle Permission, granting for awhile, (Two months or more, she would prefer) To take Glenorie home with her. This learning, we must journey on To Linda's home, in Washington. Thus reader, with me there repairing. We find the two friends happy, sharing The charms society e'er tries To spread before youth's dazzled eyes.

Two lovely girls, in truth, they were ;

Young Linda was a blonde, and fairest Was she in features ; and to her

All hearts turned readily, for rarest

Of harmony was in her voice, And in her merry laughter, The mellow echo after Bird-carol was not sweeter ; While richest poems' meter Was not more musical ; And in her presence beautiful, One must be happier without choice. Glenorie had those large, dark eyes, So wondrous with soul mysteries. That make the plainest face appear Attractive ; her complexion clear, Enhanced the bloom of cheek and lip ; And, blest with the companionship Of happy Linda, her young face Grew yet more pleasing, as the days Since here she came had seemed to glide Elysian-hued, adown Time's tide, But soon there came another dream — A strange enchantment it did seem, So potent, that long years thereafter The fragrance of one flower could waft her Back to the bright assemblage where She first met Everard Delton Clair.

And not to her the enchantment came

Alone ; for when before his vision She stood, love lit the undying flame —

He felt his beacon-star had risen. "He is an Englishman, whose birth Is lineally noble."

Thus Linda's friend, Wayne Moble,

Had whispered to Glenorie,

As they were walking slowly,

Amid the crowd. "I knew him

Last summer, while pursuing My tour abroad ; and on the earth He's one of Nature's noblemen, aside From rank or title, which may slide Some future day upon his name." He finished here, for now they came In sight of Clair, and soon exchanged The form of introduction. But a pained And startled throbbing shook the heart Of young Glenorie ; like a dart, A nameless fear ran thro' her frame And so confused her, that in vain She strove the trembling of her voice to still ; And gained not her composure, till He seated her within Conservatory, Where bloomed rich flowers, exotics, rosy ; One, as he touched the plant by chance, Sent bright leaves down from every branch.

They fell upon her dress and head, As if more gems she did require ; He broke a spray and sportive said,

"I will fulfill the flower's desire. They wish you to be crowned as queen, And I, most heartily conceding The wisdom of their choice, am pleading That you, fair Sovereign, will enroll me

Among your knights who boldly And faithfully will serve you, When danger would unnerve you." This said, he placed the flowers between

The shining braids of her dark hair,

Then near her side, with courtly air

Drew up a chair and on it sat,

While he discoursed with gentle tact

Of flowery science. Other themes

He spake of; England's rural scenes —

Her beauteous lakes, fed by the rills

Born 'mid the wild, romantic hills,

And cradled by the grassy vales,

Where soft winds sing their summer gales ;

Where, fringed with banks of darkest green.

They glide old, vexing rocks between,

Or wind by holly covered steeps,

Or craggy cliffs where twilight sleeps —

Till glad at last, a plunge they take

Into the blue and dimpled lake. Then spake of castles gray and hoary. Where the wild ivy, famed in story,

With loving arms would hide from sight

Time's footsteps, even in daylight.

Then of the parks and lovely lawns,

The mountains, too, and forest wildwood.

Where in the shade the timid fawns

He'd startled, in the days of childhood.

Then wondered if the States could boast Of fairer scenes or more inspiring?

Glenorie met his looks inquiring, And modestly replied, by giving A short, yet beautiful description Ot Edgewood views, and then she added "I am no judge, for little have 1 traveled 'Mid rural scenes. 1 love them most, But other tourists from your land Have beauty found both rich and grand. Within our bounds ; and you the same Will find."'' "I hope so, for I came Intent to spend six months or more ; And where I can, I shall explore The Western wilds. A friend of mine Will join me early in spring time." Ere long he talked of Alpine scenes And Roman glories : and it seems Time flew unheeded by the pair. For Wayne and Linda found them there An hour later. "Come, dear truant ;"" Cried Linda to her friend, "pursuant

To mother's wish, Tve sought you, come. The hour is late, we must go home."

But from her rest that very night —

Or rather it was near the morning, Glenorie started in afright —

Say, did her very dreams give warning ? That she should cry, "O, Father, save

Me from the winning stranger!"

What was the lurking danger.

That lent a dread so fearful

To her young heart ? All tearful

Her waking eyes ; as if the dreaming

Was more reality than seeming. Ah! was it shadowings of fate, that gave

Such boding sense of pain and fear

When thus she dreamed that Clair was near?

Long was it ere she slept again,

So deep the impression left ; and then

Her sleep was troubled as before.

Until a sudden light shone o'er

Her room, and to her vision plain,

Unless she still was dreaming, came

An angel form, beside her bed.

And with sweet voice it gently said,

"Be calm, my daughter! Be at rest!

God watches, and He knoweth best, For purpose good, thou art appointed To walk life's earthly paths, annointed

With sorrow's oil ; but bear thou up.

And trustful drink thy mingled cup!"

Then peace came o'er the troubled face —

At dawn she woke, refreshed and beaming With all her own attractive grace,

Tho' much she pondered o'er her dreaming. The afternoon bro't Wayne and Clair.

But with his name, the shadow

Of that strange dread, like spasm

Of pain, came o'er her.

And when he stood before her,

Scarcely the pale lips gave him greeting —

Her heart almost ceased from its beating, And wish Uke this, her soul breathed there : " Would I could fly, far from his sight As sunbeams send their rays of light !" She could not fly ; her feet were stone, She sank into a seat, and soon was gone That fearful feeling ; but replaced By its reverse, which quick effaced The pain. Yet, O, how strange! To thus Be so attracted, where at first Such fearful terror came ! But vain Tho't tried the mystery to explain. Then and whene'er in solitudes, She tried to solve these varying moods. Which ever came whene'er she met him For many days ; but now forgetting It all, beneath the charm he lent To all his converse, listened with content.

Chapter III

To Linda, Clair was ever kind And friendly, he her charms respected.

But every call, he seemed inclined — Or to Glenorie was directed

His first regard. Indeed, a knight • He proved himself most faithful. For time bro't no abating Of his first admiration.

Like midnight constellation. Each evening's "fete" or "soiree" Found him beside her constantly.

From Wayne's account of him, all right

His life and worth. So Mrs. Ware

Smiled on the friendship of the pair ;

And thus the happy days flew on,

And circled into weeks. Anon,

Those vague, mysterious shadows came

And filled Glenorie's heart with pain ;

And once to Linda, she confessed

The fears, that gave her such unrest ;

But Linda said, "My precious girl,

'Tis but love's shadows, Clair's an earl —

Or will be when his father's dead —

I think from something Wayne has said. But here, disguised, he seeks to win you By his own worth — not wealth or tinsel.

So darling, put your doubts away,

You'll shine 'mid England's peers some day."

One eve, perhaps a month or more.

After they held this conversation,

Wayne's carriage waited at the door

To take this night, for recreation,

Glenorie, Linda, Mrs. Ware,

To hear a far-famed Senorita — (Her name, it may have been Godita) — Who sang her last, this evening only. While in the parlor, tho' not lonely, Some moments, Wayne had waited The coming of the ladies, There came a ring, and Everard Clair Was ushered in. "You would not go.

I tho't," was Wayne's quick greeting. "No,

I leave the city ere the morn" —

But here the ladies entered, and ere long

He had explained. His father, very ill.

Had sent for him at once. "And will

Miss Lynn"' — he turned to her — "forego

The Opera, and an hour or so

Remain with me ; if Mrs. Ware

Grants her permission ?"* Soon the pair

Were left alone ; yet kind adieu

He bade the rest ere they withdrew.

Then to a seat he lead Glenorie.

And sat beside her, speaking lowly. In tones that feeling deep betrayed. With agitation thus he said :

"A strange request I have to make.

My dearest friend, but if you grant it, My life henceforth I consecrate

To bring to you life's joys, enchanted. With me this is no idle dream — " And then, the old, old story. Of love divine and holy, Was breathed to her bewildered ears ; She only answered him with tears. "You love me." Low her whisper, "I do not know." He kissed her And said, "These tears — do they not mean You grieve to bid me now farewell ?"' She bowed her head. "Then all is well. Look up and tell me you will go

In love and trust — it must be so —

My carriage waits to take me hence —

Then let us haste with good intents,

And seek a chaplain, who shall make

Us one in name, for true love's sake!"

Trembling she started from his side —

"O, Sir, I cannot be your bride!"

Her heart was beating like a bird's

Made captive ; but with tender words , He drew her back ; again persuaded — "Tho' short the time we've been acquainted,

I feel 'tis best that we should wed" —

"O, Sir, I am too young, she said."

"Then trust to my maturer age.

Seven years should make me wiser, surely. If a right progress I have made" —

"Have you no fears I do not love you truly?" "Not one," he answered. "But I'll go,

If other friends are dearer. Rising

As if to go — but now, surprising

To her, a pain came surging

Upon her heart ; swift urging

His stay. "You are the nearest

Of all my friends, the dearest C "Then wherefore do you answer no.''"

Again he plead, and urged again —

"She ne'er would see him, if in vain

His suit proved now." And his strong will

At length prevailed ; for, trembling still,

She bro't her wraps and went with him

To where a chaplain dwelt within, And there they soon were married. Then Returned to Mr. Ware^s again. "Would I could take you now, with me To England, but it may not be ! Yet half the pain of parting's gone, In knowing now you are my own Beloved wife. All other grief. From this great joy shall gain relief! My precious one, my dear Glenorie, You'll be of Delton Hall its glory !

'Tis right your husband's name you wear, And that has made you, Lady Clair.""

"But if, until I come again,

You should prefer to hold our secret Within your heart, please say it ; then

ril write you so that you can keep it." "I wish you would," was her reply. "Then I must leave you, darling, To catch the steamer Starling. I will return as quickly As I can make it fitting ; And write you oft as possible ; So dearest, be not sorrowful. But give me now a kind good-bye." He drew her to his heart, and kissed Even more than once her trembling lips ; And then the door shut out his form. And rolling wheels proclaimed him gone. Quick to her room she sped away,

And kneeling there began to pray,

For at the tho't that she was bound,

Those fearful feelings came around

Her frightened soul ; and knowing well

That prayer alone could break the spell

Of their strange terror, thus she knelt,

And weeping prayed, and praying wept. Most earnestly of God she pleaded, That He would send the help she needed.

It came at last ; but it was long

Ere sleep pressed down her eye-lids warm.

At morn she woke, and soon espied

The ring Clair placed upon her finger. And starting up, she quickly cried —

As on her couch she did not linger, "O, God, it cannot, cannot be! I only have been dreaming.

And soon will pass this seeming. As other dreams do vanish." But still she could not banish The growing truth. Again the ring Set every pulse to quivering. "Away this dread that comes to me! Fm not the bride of Everard Clair!" And from her hand, in wild despair She caught the ring, and flung it far Across the room ; but like a star, It gleamed upon the carpet ; then, Flashed back its diamond light again. Into her eyes, like mild rebuke ;

She felt it, and a moment mute She stood, then eagerly she ran And caught it, and at once began To upbraid herself, as quick she slipped It in its place. Then to her lips She pressed it, murmuring low and sadly, "Forgive, dear Clair, that I so madly Should treat your gift — I did not mean — But, O, so strange this all doth seem I"'

"Whence do these counter feelings come. That fill my soul with tho^'ts uncheerful? Have I two spirits linked in one, The first all loving, and the other fearful?" No answer to her question came ; .

Nor could she break the sadness About her heart. All gladness Seemed flown forever. Linda's "Good morning," scarcely kindles The glow upon her face, that ever Before with Linda's presence Had come. Her friend beheld the stain Of tears at once, and tried to cheer, With warm caress and words sincere, Her grief. At length she 'spied the ring, And smiling touched it, said, "The thing Is settled, darling, I suppose, He will return to claim his rose ; But I'll not quickly let you go, So when you write, please tell him so." Another kiss, and soon the two

Passed down the stairs, and came in view

Of Mr. Ware ; who smiling, said

Good morning to them, and then led The way into the room for dining ; And Linda, never once divining

Aught save betrothal bound her friend,

No other questions did extend.

Chapter IV

Two moons, with all their crescent light, Had come to earth and shortly tarried, Since passed away the fateful night

On which Glenorie had been married. Now, at her uncle's, she awaits Lord Everard's will. A letter Three times had come. "No better. As yet my father seemeth."

And tho' each missive beameth With tenderest affection.

And fondest recollection, Her heart no joyful throb elates. Her uncle, in his grave, stern way, Was ever kind, but Esther's sway Made her unhappy and most sad. One day, some friends her uncle had Attend him home, who stayed and dined ; And when they went, one left behind An English paper ; and it chanced Glenorie saw it, o'er it glanced — 'Twas well she was alone, for round The room went whirling', as she found

A sudden death made note of there,

The name, Lord Everard Delton Clair. At once her senses all seemed leaving — But with great effort, swiftly speeding.

She reached her room. "Thrown from his horse,"

She read, "and taken up a corpse."

She read it o'er, reread again,

But o'er her mind spread such confusion, With such a startling sense of pain —

That she received it as delusion. "It is some strange mistake," she said,

"And soon he'll write" — "the story

Is false — I live, Glenorie,

Thus, try not to believe it,

Nor let your soul receive it

As truth." And quick the paper

She tore in shreds, and later Put them from sight. Thus comforted, "Dear Clair, I'll patiently await Your words, ere I believe such fate Has come to you." And all the day She strove her heavy heart to stay Upon this hope. That night she slept. Believing that he lived ; but wept At morn, for hope was not as strong, And as the days dragged slow along, Her hope grew fainter. Not again A letter to her sad heart came. And oft she wept. Sometimes she said "If this is true, that he is dead,

'Twas well I kept our marriage secret, For he, it seems, did not reveal it.

Else, of his friends some one would write

The news to me, his widowed wife.""