Early and late poems of Alice and Phœbe Cary

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ALICE GARY.

Ballads and Narrative Poems.

A Norland Ballad .

II. Down along the dismal woodland

Blew October's yellow leaves, And the day had waned and faded.

To the saddest of all eves.

Poison rods of scarlet berries

Still were standing here and there. But the clover blooms were faded.

And the orchard boughs were bare. From the stubblefields the cattle

Winding homeward, playful, slow,

JESSIE CARROL.

With their slender horns of silver

Pushed each other to and fro.

From his sheltering kennel, whined, As the voice of Jessie Carrol

Backward drifted on the wind — Backward drifted from a pathway- Sloping down the upland wild, Where she walked with Allan Archer,

Light of spirit as a child !

All her young heart wild with rapture

And the bliss that made it beat — Not the golden wells of Hybla

Held a treasure half so sweet !

But as oft the shifting rose-cloud,

In the sunset light that lies.

Mournful makes us, feeling only

How much farther are the skies, — So the mantling of her blushes,

And the trembling of her heart, 'Neath his steadfast eyes but made her

Feel how far they were apart.

" Allan," said she, " I will tell you

Of a vision that I had — All the livelong night I dreamed it,

And it made me very sad.

We were walking slowly seaward.

In the twilight — you and I — Through a break of clearest azure

Shone the moon — as now — on high Though I nothing said to vex you.

O'er your forehead came a frown,

And I strove, but could not soothe you •

Something kept my full heart down ; When, before us, stood a lady

In the moonlight's pearly beam, Very tall and proud and stately —

(Allan, this was in my dream ! — ) Looking down, I thought, upon me.

Half in pity, half in scorn.

Till my soul grew sick with wishing

That I never had been born. * Cover me from woe and madness ! *

Cried I to the ocean flood, As she locked her milk-white fingers

In between us where we stood, — All her flood of midnight tresses

Softly gathered from their flow, By her crown of bridal beauty.

Paler than the winter snow.

Striking then my hands together,

O'er the tumult of my breast, — Ail the beauty waned and faded

From the Valley of the West ! "

In the beard of Allan Archer

Twisted then his fingers white, As he said, " My gentle Jessie,

You must not be sad to-night ; You must not be sad, my Jessie,

You are over kind and good, And I fain would make you happy.

Very happy — if I could ! "

Oft he kissed her cheek and forehead,

Called her darling oft, but said,

Never, that he loved her fondly,

Or that ever they should wed ; But that he was grieved that shadows

Should have chilled so dear a heart ; That the time, foretold so often,

Then was come — and they must part ! Shook her bosom then with passion,

Hot her forehead burned with pain. But her lips said only, " Allan,

Will you ever come again ? "

And he answered, lightly dallying

With her tresses all the while.

Life had not a star to guide him

Like the beauty of her smile ; And that when the corn was ripened

And the vintage harvest prest.

She would see him home returning

To the Valley of the West.

When the moon had veiled her splendor,

And went lessening down the blue. And along the eastern hill-tops

Burned the morning in the dew.

They had parted — each one feeling

That their lives had separate ends ; They had parted — neither happy —

Less than lovers — more than friends. For as Jessie mused in silence,

She remembered that he said, Never, that he loved her fondly.

Or that ever they should wed.

'T was full many a nameless meaning My poor words can never say,

Felt without the need of utterance,

That had won her heart away.

Oh, the days were weary ! weary !

And the eves were dull and long, With the cricket's chirp of sorrow.

And the owlet's mournful song.

Out of slumber oft she started

In the still and lonesome nights. Hearing but the traveller's footstep

Hurrying toward the village lights.

So, moaned by the dreary winter —

All her household tasks fulfilled — Till beneath the last year's rafters

Came the swallows back to build.

Meadow-pinks, in flakes of crimson.

Through the pleasant valleys lay. And again were oxen ploughing

Up and down the hills all day.

Thus the dim days dawned and faded

To the maid, forsaken, lorn, Till the freshening breeze of summer

Shook the tassels of the corn.

Ever now within her chamber

All night long the lamp-light shines, But no white hand from her casement

Pushes back the heavy vines.

On her cheek a fire was feeding.

And her hand transparent grew — Ah, the faithless Allan Archer !

More than she had dreamed was true.

No complaint was ever uttered, Only to herself she sighed, —

As she read of wretched poets

Who had pined of love and died.

Once she crushed the sudden crying

From her trembling lips away, When they said the vintage harvest

Had been gathered in that day.

Often, when they kissed her, smiled she,

Saying that it soothed her pain.

And that they must not be saddened —

She would soon be well again !

Thus nor hoping nor yet fearing.

Meekly bore she all her pain, Till the red leaves of the autumn

Withered from the woods again; Till the bird had hushed its singing

In the silvery sycamore.

And the nest was left unsheltered

In the lilac by the door ; Saying, still, that she was happy —

None so much as she was blest — None of all the many maidens

In the Valley of the West.

III. Down the heath and o'er the moorland

Blows the wild gust high and higher. Suddenly the maiden pauses

Spinning at the cabin fire.

And from out her taper fingers

Falls away the flaxen thread, As some neighbor entering, whispers,

" Jessie Carrol lieth dead."

Then, as pressing close her forehead

To the window-pane, she sees Two stout men together digging

Underneath the churchyard trees ; And she asks in kindest accents,

" Was she happy when she died ? " Sohbing all the while to see them

Void the heavy earth aside ; Or, upon their mattocks leaning.

Through their fingers numb to blow, For the wintry air is chilly,

And the grave-mounds white with snow. And the neighbor answers softly,

" Do not, dear one, do not cry ; At the break of day she asked us

If we thought that she must die ; And when I had told her, sadly,

That I feared it would be so.

Smiled she, saying, 'T will be weary

Digging in the churchyard now ! ' ' Earth,' I said, ' was very dreary —

That its paths at best were rough ; ' And she whispered, she was ready,

That her life was long enough.

So she lay serene and silent,

Till the wind, that wildly drove. Soothed her from her mortal sorrow.

Like the lullaby of love."

Thus they talked, while one that loved her

Smoothed her tresses dark and long. Wrapped her white shroud down, and simply

Wove her sorrow to this song ;

ANNIE CLAYVILLE. 15