AN OLD, OLD STORY.

A casual meeting—one of merest chance;

An introduction—bows, a smile, a dance.

’Twas thus we met; and little dreamed I then

He would be more to me than other men.

Of course I thought him handsome, bright, and gay;

But so were others—he not more than they.

My heart, that might the future have revealed,

Was stilled and sleeping, all its secrets sealed.

To meet so coolly seems a mystery now;

To part so gaily—ah, I wonder how!

To clasp his hand, to lean upon his arm,

Yet no soft flutterings fill me with alarm;

To stand beside him, close beside his heart,

Nor dream that of my own it formed a part—

’Twas all so natural! Oh, we little knew

What fate was shaping out betwixt us two;

What each to each, what heart to heart might be,

What I should be to him—what he to me.

. . . . . .

A moment when I first had dared to feel

Emotions which my pride would fain conceal,

When sudden thoughts across my mind were cast,

And sudden flutterings made my heart beat fast;

When fancies strange as sweet, and sweet as strange,

Sought shy admittance, through my heart to range.

O timid hopes, soft doubts, and tender fear!

O coy concealment from the one most dear!

O burning blushes that unbidden rise!

O faltering tongue, and traitorous tell-tale eyes!

O sweet anxiety, and pleasing pain,

To love—to love; and not to love in vain!

To watch his eye, and half in wonder see

’Twas always brightest when it fell on me;

To mark, when by my side, his tender tone,

His hand’s soft pressure when it held my own;

O thus to watch, and wait for him to tell,

What my heart whispered that it knew full well!

. . . . . .

A summer evening, calm, and bright, and fair;

A moonlit garden, he beside me there;

My trembling hand above my heart was pressed,

To calm its thrills of happy, sweet unrest.

I longed so much his tale of love to hear,

Yet when he spoke was filled with fluttering fear—

A fear lest I might all unworthy prove

Of his affection true, of his deep love;

And something of my fears he seemed to know,

His manly voice had grown so soft and low.

Ah! what a tale he whispered in my ear,

So hard to answer, but how sweet to hear!

I could not answer; all my heart seemed filled

With language, but my recreant tongue was stilled.

And oh! so tender was his melting mood!

He clasped my hand—the clasp I understood;

He sought my eyes—but oh! I dared not raise

Those little tell-tales to receive his gaze;

‘One little word,’ he said, with fond caress.

I spoke; that word, that little word was—‘Yes!’

. . . . . .

A morning when the sunshine seemed to be

The fairest thing on this fair earth to me,

For—so at least old tales and stories run—

The bride is blessèd whom it shines upon.

Assembled friends with presents rich and rare;

A laughing group of girlish bridesmaids fair;

A father—mother, clasping to their heart

The darling child with whom they fear to part,

The daughter who, like timid bird caressed,

Prepares to flutter from the parent nest.

And dearer, dearest to that blushing bride

Is he whose place till death is by her side.

Ah, ever side by side, and hand in hand,

And heart to heart, henceforth those twain must stand.

Then many a fond caress mid tearful smiles;

Bells pealing, holy altar, flower-strewn aisles;

A wreath—a snowy robe—a bridal veil—

A happy bride, who tells this ‘old, old tale!’

Florence Nixon.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] For a similar case of lapsed memory, see Carpenter’s Mental Physiology, 4th edition, pp. 460-465.