II.
She lured his gaze, in braver days,
And tranced him sirenwise;
And he did paint her, through a haze
Of sullen paradise,
With scars of kisses on her face
And embers in her eyes.
III.
And now—nor dream nor wild conceit—
Though faltering, as before—
Through tears he paints her, as is meet,
Tracing the dear face o'er
With lilied patience meek and sweet
As Mother Mary wore.
SISTER JONES'S CONFESSION.
I thought the deacon liked me, yit
I warn't adzackly shore of it—
Fer, mind ye, time and time agin,
When jiners 'ud be comin' in,
I'd seed him shakin' hands as free
With all the sistern as with me!
But jurin' last Revival, where
He called on me to lead in prayer,
An' kneeled there with me, side by side,
A-whisper'n' "he felt sanctified
Jes' tetchin of my gyarment's hem,"—
That settled things as fur as them-
Thare other wimmin was concerned!—
And—well!—I know I must a-turned
A dozen colors!—Flurried?—la!—
No mortal sinner never saw
A gladder widder than the one
A-kneelin' there and wonderun'
Who'd pray'—So glad, upon my word,
I railly could n't thank the Lord!
THE CURSE OF THE WANDERING FOOT.
All hope of rest withdrawn me?—
What dread command hath put
This awful curse upon me—
The curse of the wandering foot!
Forward and backward and thither,
And hither and yon again—
Wandering ever! And whither?
Answer them, God! Amen.
The blue skies are far o'er me—-
The bleak fields near below:
Where the mother that bore me?—
Where her grave in the snow?—
Glad in her trough of a coffin—
The sad eyes frozen shut
That wept so often, often,
The curse of the wandering foot!
Here in your marts I care not
Whatsoever ye think.
Good folk many who dare not
Give me to eat and drink:
Give me to sup of your pity—
Feast me on prayers!—O ye,
Met I your Christ in the city
He would fare forth with me—