THE WIFE.
There stands a cottage by a river side,
With rustic benches sloping eaves beneath,
Amid a scene of mountain, stream and heath.
A dainty garden, watered by the tide,
On whose calm breast the queenly lilies ride,
Is bright with many a purple pansy wreath,
While here and there forbidden lion's teeth
Uprear their golden crowns with stubborn pride.
See! there she leans upon the little gate,
Unchanged, save that her curls, once flowing free,
Are closely coiled upon her shapely head,
And that her eyes look forth more thoughtfully.
Hark to her sigh! "Why tarries he so late?"
But mark her smile! She hears his well-known tread.
THE MOTHER.
Beneath the eaves there is another chair,
And a bruised lily lies upon the walk,
With the bright drops still clinging to its stalk.
Whose careless hand has dropped its treasure there?
And whose small form does that frail settee bear?
Whose are that wooden shepherdess and flock,
That noble coach with steeds that never balk?
And why the gate that tops the cottage-stair?
Ah! he has now a rival for her love,
A chubby-cheeked, soft-fisted Don Juan,
Who rules with iron hand in velvet glove
Mother and sire, as only Baby can.
See! there they romp, the mother and her boy,
He on her shoulders perched and wild with joy.
LONG AGO.
The sun was swimming in the purple tide,
His golden locks far floating on the sea,
When thou and I stole beachward, side by side,
To say adieu and dream of joys to be.
The ebbing waves were whispering to the strand
Amid the rocks a tender, sweet good-bye—
Ah! Well that night could we two understand
What bitter grief was in their ceaseless cry.
The salt wind blew across the rank marsh grass,
And laid its chilling, fingers on our pulse.
Sea nettles lay in many a shapeless mass,
Half hidden, in the garnet hills of dulse.
The awkward crabs ran sideways from our path,
And starfish sprawled face downward in the mud;
While, token of some bleak December's wrath,
A wreck lay stranded high above the flood.
Few were our words. Love speaks from heart to heart,
Nor needs that rude interpreter the tongue.
A few short hours and fate would bid us part,
No more to stray the weedy rocks among.
We dared not trust our bitter thoughts to speech.
For speech had raised the floodgates of our tears;
And so we walked in silence on the beach
With the wild billows wailing in our ears.