Poems - Marietta Holley
That he fain would have taken this pretty pet lamb
To dwell in his stately fold,
To fetter it fast with a jeweled chain,
And cage it with bars of gold;
But this coy little lamb loved its freedom,
Not so free was she, though, to be true,
But, oh, the dainty and shy little lamb
Well her master's voice she knew.
'Twas vain for the Squire the story to tell
Of his riches and high descent,
As it fell into one rosy shell of an ear
Out of its mate it went;
How one grim old ancestor into the land
With William the Conqueror came,
She thought, the sweet, of a conqueror
She knew with that very name.
So in this tender conflict
The great man was forced to yield
To the handsome, sunburnt ploughman
Who sowed and reaped in his field;
For vainly he poured out his glittering gifts,
Vainly he plead and besought,
Her heart was a tender and soft little heart,
But it was not a heart to be bought.
So strange a thing I warrant you
Happens not every day,
That the pride that had thriven for centuries
One slight little maiden should slay;
Why the proud Squire's Roman features
Quivered and burned with shame,
And the picture of his grim ancestor
Blushed in its antique frame.
Were this a romance, an idle tale,
The Squire would sicken and die,
Slain by the pitiless cruelty,
Of her dark and dazzling eye;
And she in some shadowy convent
Would bow her beautiful head,
But the hand that should have told penitent beads
Wore a plain gold ring instead.
And he, not twice had his oak trees bloomed
Ere he wedded a lady grand,
Whose tall and towering family tree,
Had for ages darkened the land;
'Twas a famous genealogical tree,
With no modernly thrifty shoots,
But a tree with a sap of royalty
Encrusting its mossy old roots.
This leaf he plucked from the outmost twig
Was somewhat withered, 'tis true,
Long years had flown since it lightly danced
To the summer air and the dew;
Not much of a dowry brought she,
In beauty or vulgar pelf,
But she had two or three ancestors
More than the Squire himself.
'Twas much to muse o'er their musty names,
And to think that his children's brains
Should be moved by the sanguine current,
That had flown through such ancient veins;
But I think, sometimes, in his secret heart,
The Squire breathed woeful sighs
For the fresh sweet face of the little maid,
With the dark and wonderful eyes.
But she, no bird ever sang such songs
To its mate from contented nest,
As this wee waiting wife, when the twilight
Was treading the glorious west;
As she looked through the clustering roses,
For the manly form that would come
Up through the cool green evening fields
To this sweet little wife and home.
She could see the great stone mansion
Towering over the oaks' dark green,
And the lawn like emerald velvet,
Fit for the feet of a queen;
But round this brown-eyed princess,
Did Love his ermine fold,
Queen was she of a richer realm,
She had dearer wealth than gold.
ROSES OF JUNE.
She sat in the cottage door, and the fair June moon looked down
On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face and sweet
As the roses dewy white that grow so thick at her feet,
White royal roses, fit for a monarch's crown.
And one is clasped in her slender hand, and one on her bosom lies,
And two rare blushing buds loop up her light brown hair,
Ah, roses of June, you never looked on a face so white and fair,
Such perfectly moulded lips, such sweet and heavenly eyes.
This low-walled home is dear to her, she has come to it to-day
From the lordly groves of her palace home afar,
But not to stay; there's a light on her brow like the light
of a star,
And her eyes are looking beyond the earth, far, far away.
She was born in this cottage home, the sweetest rosebud of spring,
And grew with its flowers, the fairest blossom of all,
Till her friends ambitiously said she would grace
the kingliest hall,
And flattery breathed on her ear its passionate whispering.
A man of riches and taste saw the maiden's face,
And thought her beauty would grace his stately southern home,
So he took her there, with pictures from France, and
statues from Rome,
And marvellous works of art from many an ancient place.
He decked her in costly attire, and showed her beauty with pride
As for sympathy and love, what need of these had she?
He had placed her amidst the choicest treasures of land and sea,
His marble Hebe never complained, and why should his bride?
He had polished the beautiful unknown gem and set it in gold,
He had given her his name and his wealth, what more
could she ask?
When all other gifts were hers, it were surely an easy task
Her pleading spirit's restless wings to fold.
The wise world called her blest, so heart be still,
She had beauty, and splendor, and youth, and a husband
calmly kind,
And crowds of flattering friends her lofty mansion lined,
And dark-browed slaves awaited her queenly will.
Why should she dream of the past, of the days of old,
Of her childhood home, and more oft of the home of the dead,
Of the grave where she went alone the night before she was wed,
And knelt, with her pure cheek pressed to the marble cold?
It was not sin, she said, that those eyes of darkest blue
Haunted her dreams more wildly from day to day,
Since they looked on Heaven now, and she was so far away,
She could love the dead and still be to the living true.
She could think of him, the one who loved her best,
Of him who true had been if all the world deceived,
Who felt all grief with her when she was grieved,
And shared each joy that thrilled her girlish breast.
It was not sin that she heard that voice, gentle and deep,
And the echo of a name--it was cut in marble now--
So it was not sin, she said, as she breathed it low
In the midnight hour when all but she were asleep.
But she wearier grew of pride and pomp, like a home sick child
she pined,
And paler grew her cheek, as worn with a wearing pain,
She said the fresh free country air would seem so sweet again,
So she went to her childhood home, as a pilgrim goes to a shrine,
And she looked down the orchard path and the meadow's clover bloom;
She stood by the stone-walled well that had mirrored her face
when a child,
She saw where the robins built, and her roses clambered wild,
And lingered lost in thought in each low and rustic room.
And she sat in the cottage door while the fair June moon
looked down
On a face as pure as its own, an innocent face, and sweet
As the roses wet with dew that grew so thick at her feet,
White, royal roses, fit for a monarch's crown.
But at night, when silence and sleep on the lonely hamlet fell
Like a spirit clad in white through the graveyard gate
she passed,
And the stars bent down to hear, "I have come to you, love,
at last,"
While through the valley solemnly sounded the midnight bell.
And her southern birds will wait her coming in vain,
Their starry eyes impatiently pierce the palm-trees' shade,
And her roses droop in their bowers, alone they'll wither
and fade.
Roses of June you are gone, but we know you will blossom again.
MAGDALENA.
Who falsely called thee destroyer, still white Angel of Death?
Oh not a destroyer here, but a kind restorer, thou,
For the guilty look is gone, died out with her failing breath,
And the sinless peace of a babe has come to lip and brow.
Drowned in the heaving tide with her life, is her burden of woe,
The dreary weight of sin, the woeful, troublesome years,
The cold pure touch of the water has washed the shame from her brow
Leaving a calm immortal, that looks like the chrism of peace.
I fancy her smile was like this, as she pulled at her mother's gown
Drawing her out with childish fingers to watch
the red of the skies
On the old brown doorstep of home, while the peaceful sun
went down,
With her mother's hand on her brow, and the glow of the west
in her eyes.
"An outcast vile and lost," you say, yes, she went astray,
Astray, when the crimson wine of life ran fresh and wild,
With mother's tender hand no more on her brow, put away
The grasses beneath, and she was alone and almost a child.
Like a kid decoyed to its death, the stealthy panther lures,
Mocking the voice of its dam, thus he led the innocent child
Through her tenderness down to ruin, he is a friend of yours,
And admired by all; as you say, "men will be wild."
But I wonder if God, so far above on His great white throne
The clanging tumult of trouble and doubt that mortals vex;
When the murmur of a crime sweeps up from earth with woeful moan,
If He pauses, ere He condemns, to ask the offender's sex.
And if so, whether the weaker or stronger He blames the most,
The tempter or tempted a tithe of His tender compassion claims,
Whether the selfish or too unselfish, those who through love
or lust are lost,
He in His infinite wisdom and mercy most condemns.
Frown not, I know her evil our womanly nature shuns,
Turns from, with shuddering horror; but now so low is her head
For God's sake, woman, remember your own little ones
Lying safely at home in their snow-white sheltered bed.
Your own little girls, for them does the flame of your anger burn,
"Such creatures will draw down innocence into guilt and woe."
I think from eternity vast she will scarcely return
To entice them to sin, you can safely forgive her now.
"You will not countenance wrong, but fiercely war for the right
Even unto the bitter death." Very good, you should do so,
But, my friend, if your own secret thought had blossomed to light
In temptation, you might have been in this outcast's place,
you know.
So let us be pitiful, grateful that God's strong hand
Has held our own, and the tale of a woman's despair
And penitent sin, He stooped and wrote in the perishing sand;
We carve the record in stone, weak, sinful souls that we are.
In the arms of the kind all-mother, but close
to the sorrowful wave,
With its voice no longer moaning to her a despairing call,
But a dirge deploring and deep; we will make her grave,
With healing grasses above her, and God over all.
MY ANGEL.
Last night she came unto me,
And kneeling by my side,
Laid her head upon my bosom,
My beautiful, my bride;
My lost one, with her soft dark eyes,
And waves of sunny hair.
I smoothed the shining tresses,
With tearful, fond caresses,
And words of thankful prayer.
And then a thrill of doubt and pain,
My jealous heart swept o'er;
We were parted--she was dwelling
Upon a far-off shore;
Yet He who made my sad heart, knew
I loved her more and more;
My love more true and perfect grew,
As each dark day passed o'er;
But she whose heart had been my own,
Who loved me tenderly,
Whose last low words I knelt to hear,
Were, "How can I leave thee?"
And "Death would seem as sweet as life,
Could we together be."
Now, though we two were parted
By such a distance wide,
By such a strange and viewless realm,
By such a boundless tide,
Her gentle face was radiant
With a surpassing bliss;
She was happier in that distant land,
Than she ever was in this.
And in some other tenderness,
Some other love divine,
She had found a peace and happiness,
She never found in mine.
So with a tender chiding,
I could not quite suppress,
Though well my darling knew
I would not make her pleasures less.
"Are you happy, love?" I said,
"Are you happy, love, without me?"
Then she raised her gentle head,
And twined her arms about me;
Yet while my tears fell faster,
Beneath her mute caress,
Her face had all the glory
Of a sainted soul at rest;
And her voice was sweet as music,
"I am happy--I am blest."
"Do you know how lonely-hearted
I have been each weary day,
Praying that each passing hour
Would bear my life away,
That we might be united
Upon that distant shore?"
"Laurence, we are not parted,
I am with your evermore."
"I cannot see you, darling,
Your face I cannot see."
"Can you see the moon's white fingers,
That leads the pleading sea?
Can you see the fragrance lingering
Where summer roses be?
The soft winds tender clasping,
The close-enwrapping air
Enfolding you--Oh, Laurence,
I am with you everywhere."
Then while her face grew brighter
As with a heavenly glow,
In tenderness unspeakable,
She kissed my lips and brow;
Then I lost her--then she left me,
As at the set of day
The snowy clouds float outward,
And melt in light away.
I heard low strains of melody
No earthly choir could sing,
A light breath floated past me,
As from a gliding wing;
And on my darkened spirit
There fell so bright a gleam,
I knew the blessed vision
Was not in truth a dream;
Though death had won from my embrace,
My beautiful, my bride,
I had won a richer treasure,
An angel by my side.
The Father careth for us all
In pity, and I know
My love is not forever gone
From him who loved her so;
When a few more days have drifted
Their shadows over me,
When the golden gates are lifted,
My angel I shall see;
Her veiled face in its glory
Upon my gaze will rise,
And Heaven will shine upon me
Through the sweetness of her eyes.
GRIEF.
What though the Eden morns were sweet with song
Passing all sweetness that our thought can reach;
Crushing its flowers noon's chariot moved along
In brightness far transcending mortal speech;
Yet in the twilight shades did God appear,
Oh welcome shadows so that He draw near.
Prosperity is flushed with Papal ease
And grants indulgences to pride of word,
Robing our soul in pomp and vanities,
Ah! no fit dwelling for our gentle Lord;
Grief rends those draperies of pride and sin,
And so our Lord will deign to enter in.
Then carefully we curb each thought of wrong,
We walk more softly, with more reverent feet--
As in His presence chamber, hush our tongue,
And in the holy quiet, solemn, sweet,
We feel His smile, we hear His voice so low,
So we can bless Him that He gave us woe.
What cares the sailor in the sheltered cove
For the past peril of the stormy sea;
Dear from grief's storm the haven of His love,
And so He bringeth us where we would be;
We trust in Him, we lean upon His breast,
Who shall make trouble when He giveth rest?
WILD OATS.
Oh gay young husbandmen would you be sure of a crop
Upspringing rankly, an abundant and bountiful yield?
Go forth in the morning, and sow on your life's broad field
This pleasantly odorous seed, then smooth the ground on top,
Or leave it rough, with the utmost undeceit,
Never you fear, it will thriftily thrive and grow,
Loading the harvest plain beneath your feet,
With the ripened sheaves of shame, remorse, and woe.
You have but to sow the seed, no care will it want,
For he who soweth tares while the husbandman sleeps
Taketh unwearied pains, a vigilant guard he keeps
Tirelessly watching, and tending each evil plant.
These are his pleasure gardens, leased to him through time
Where he walketh to and fro, chanting a demon song;
Tending with ghastly fingers, the scarlet buds of wrong,
And drinking greedily in the sweet perfume of crime.
And of all the seeds, the one that thriftiest thrives
Is the color of ruby wine, when it flashes high--
Who would think the tiny seed so fair to the eye
Could cast such a deadly shade over countless lives,
And branch out into murder in one springing shoot;
Thrifty branches of sin, bristling with thorns of woe
Shadowing graves where broken hearts lie low,
And minds that were God-like lowered beneath the brute.
AUTUMN.
How the sumac banners bent, dripping as if with blood,
What a mournful presence brooded upon the slumbrous air;
A mocking-bird screamed noisily in the depth of the silent wood,
And in my heart was crying the raven of despair,
Thrilling my being through with its bitter, bitter cry--
"It were better to die, it were better to die."
For she, my love, my fate, she sat by my side
On a fallen oak, her cheek all flushed with a bashful shame,
Telling me what her innocent heart had hid--
"For was not I her brother, her dear brother, all but in name."
I listened to her low words, but turned my face away--
Away from her eyes' soft light, and the mocking light of the day.
"He was noble and proud," she said, "and had chosen her from all
The haughty ladies, and great; she didn't deserve her lot."
I knew her peer could never be found in palace or hall,
And my white face told my thought, but she saw it not.
She was crushing some scarlet leaves in her dainty fingers of snow,
Her maiden joy crowning her face with a radiant glow.
"She had wanted me to know," and then a smile and a blush;
Her smile was always just like a baby's smile, and the red
Came to her cheek at a word or a glance--then there fell a hush.
She was waiting some word from me, I knew, so I said,
"May Heaven bless you both"--words spoken full quietly,
And she, God bless her, never knew how much they cost to me.
How the sumac banners bent, dripping as if with blood,
What a mournful presence brooded upon the slumbrous air;
A mocking-bird screamed noisily in the depths of the silent wood,
And in my heart was crying the raven of despair,
Thrilling my being through with its desolate, desolate cry--
"It were better to die, it were better to die."
The white dawn follows the darkness; out of the years' decay
Shineth the golden fire that gildeth the autumn with light;
From another's sin and loss, cometh this good to me,
By another's fall am I raised to this blissful height.
"Let me be humble," said my heart, as from her sweet lips fell,
"Let a prayer for him arise, with the sound of our marriage bell."
THE FAIREST LAND.
'Twas a bleak dull moor that stretched before
The low stone porch of the cottage door,
And standing there was youth and maid,
He for long journeying seemed arrayed,
And the sunset flamed in the burnished west,
And a proud throb beat in the young man's breast,
As he whispered, "Sweet, will you come to me
In that fairer land beyond the sea?"
"The wonderful western land; in dreams
I have seen its prairies green, and gleams
Of its shining waterfalls, valleys fair,
And a voice in my dreams has called me there
Where man is a man, and not a clod,
And must bend the knee to none but God.
A home will I make for thee and me
In that fairer land beyond the sea."
"But the cruel seas where the fated ships
Go down to their doom"--But he kissed the lips--
The trembling lips, till they smiled again,
And his bright hopes cheered her heart's dull pain,
And she laid her head on his hopeful breast,
And looked with him to the glowing west,
And said, "I will come, I will come to thee
To that fairer land beyond the seas."
And the crimson light changed to daffodil--
To ashen gray, but they stood there still,
And high o'er the west shone the evening star
As still he pictured that home afar--
"The peace and the bliss our own at last
When this dreary parting all is past,
When my heart's dear love, you come to me
In that fairer land beyond the sea."
So he sailed; but saddest 'tis alway
Not for those who go, but for those who stay;
And her sweet eyes gathered a shadow dim
As days went by with no news of him,
And weeks and months, but at last it came,
As the gray moor shone with the sunset flame
Her quick eyes glanced the strange lines o'er,
Then she fell like dead on the cottage floor.
'Twas a stranded ship on a rocky coast,
One true heart brave, when hope was lost,
How he toiled till all the shore had gained,
And only a baby form remained
On ship, how he breasted the surging tide
With Death a-wrestling side by side,
How he lifted the child to its mother's knee,
As a great wave washed him out to sea.
And for days the maid in the cottage door
Sat and looked o'er the dreary moor,
Her cheeks grew white 'neath her blinding tears,
And the sunset rays seemed cruel spears
That pierced her heart; and ashen gray
Turned the earth and sky, the night, the day;
But at last a star shone high above--
The tender star of the heavenly love.
For as her life ebbed day by day,
The High Countrie, the Fair alway,
Rose 'fore her eyes, the safe, sweet home,
And she seemed to hear, "Love, will you come?"
And so one eve when a bridge of gold
Seemed spanning the last sea dim and cold,
She went to him, for aye to be
In the fairest land beyond the sea.
THE MESSENGER.
Is his form hidden by some cliff or crag,
Or does he loiter on the shelving shore?
We know not, though we know he waits for us,
Somewhere upon the road that lies before.
And when he bids us we must follow him,
Must leave our half-drawn nets, our houses, lands,
And those we love the most, and best, ah they
In vain will cling to us with pleading hands!
He will not wait for us to gird our robes,
And be they white as saints, or soiled and dim,
We can but gather them around our form,
And take his icy hand and follow him.
Oh! will our palm cling to another palm
Loath, loath to loose our hold of love's warm grasp.
Or shall we free our hand from the hand of grief,
And reach it gladly out to meet his clasp?
Sometimes I marvel when we two shall meet,
When I shall hear that stealthy step, and see
The unseen form that haunteth mortal dreams,
The stern-browed face, the eyes of mystery.
Shall I be waiting for some wished-for wealth,
Impatient, by the shore of a purple sea?
But when the vessel's keel grates on the sand,
Will HE lean down its side and call to me?
Shall I in thymy pastures cool and sweet
See the lark soaring through the rosy air?
Ah, then, will his dark face look down on me,
'Neath the white splendor of the morning star.
Shall I be resting from the noonday blaze,
In the rich summer of a blossoming land,
And idly glancing through the lotus leaves,
Behold the shadow of his beckoning hand?
Or in some inland village, shaded deep,
With silence brooding o'er the quiet place,
Shall I look from some lattice crowned with flowers,
In the calm twilight and behold his face?
Or shall I over such a lonely way,
Beset with fears, my weary footsteps wend,
So desolate, that I shall greet his face
With joy as a desired and welcome friend?
Oh, little matters it when we shall meet,
Upon the quiet shore, or on the sea,
If he shall lead us to the golden gate,
Dear Lord, if he shall lead us unto Thee.
SLEEP.
Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night,
Come with the stars and the white moonbeams,
Come with your train of handmaids bright,
Blessed and beautiful dreams.
Bring the exile to his home again,
Let him catch the gleam of its low white wall;
Let his wife cling to his neck and weep,
And his children come at their father's call.
Give to the mother the child she lost,
Laid from her heart to a clay-cold bed;
Let its breath float over her tear-wet cheek,
And her cold heart warm 'neath its bright young head.
Take the sinner's hand and lead him back
To his sinless youth and his mother's knee;
Let him kneel again 'neath her tender look,
And murmur the prayer of his infancy.
Lead the aged into that wondrous clime,
Home of their youth and land of their bliss;
Let them forget in that beautiful world,
The sin and the sorrow of this.
And gently lead my love, my own,
Tenderly clasp her snow-white hand,
Wrap her in garments of soft repose,
And lead her into your mystic land.
Let your fairest handmaids bow at her feet,
Her path o'er your loveliest roses be;
And let all the flowers with their perfumed lips
Whisper of me--of me.
Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night,
Come with the stars and the white moonbeams,
Come with your train of handmaids bright,
Blessed and beautiful dreams.
THE SONG OF THE SIREN.
Oh, I am the siren, the siren of the sea,
The sea, the wondrous sea, that lies forevermore before;
I stand a fairy shape upon the shadow of a cliff
Where the water's drowsy ripple laps the phantom of a shore,
And, oh, so fair, so fair am I, I draw all hearts to me,
For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
All the glory of my golden tresses gleams upon the air,
How it falls about my snowy shoulders, round and bare and white;
My lips are full of love as rounded grapes are full of wine,
And my eyes are large and languid, and full of dewy light;
Oh, I lure the idle landsmen many a league for love of me,
For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
Sometimes they press so near that my breath is on their cheek,
And their eager hands can almost touch the glowing bowl I bear,
They can see the beaded froth, the ruby glitter of the wine,
Then I slip from their embraces like a breath of summer air;
Oh, I lightly, lightly glide away, they come no nigher me,
For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.
Sometimes I float along a-standing in a boat,
Before the ships becalmed, where dusky sailors stand,
And the helmsman drops his oar, and the lookout leaves his glass,
So I beckon them, and lure them, with the whiteness of my hand;
Oh, this the song I sing, well they listen unto me?
For I am the siren, the siren of the sea.