“Oh were he but poor, and forsaken;” she sighed,
“He then a poor maiden might seek for his bride,
But his love will some great lady crown;
Since all is so hopeless, dear Father above
Oh help me to cast out my unreturned love!
And forget the proud Valentine Brown.”
In his elegant library, sat Valentine Brown,
The argand burned brightly, the rich curtains down,
Luxurious home of repose;—
Yet his handsome face saddened, his heart was oppressed;
He sighed, and his spirit was full of unrest,
For his love he should never disclose.
He had roamed over Europe, and Countesses fair
Had graciously smiled on the great millionaire.
Yet his heart had turned coldly away;
“From her childhood, I’ve loved her, sweet Dorothy Moore,”
Just then the latch clicked—through the half opened door
Crept humbly, poor Archibald Gray.
“I want you!” he whispered; “I promised her, come!”
And Valentine followed, till reaching the home
Where Dorothy spun by the hearth;
And when he had entered with Archibald Gray
And courteously waited, commands to obey,
Knew no lovelier picture on earth.
But the tact which had piloted Valentine there
Deserted poor Archie; then Dorothy fair,
Blushing deeply, yet smilingly said:
“Why, Archibald, why did you leave us I pray?
You said till to-morrow at noon, you would stay,
And in less than an hour you had fled.”
The memory of Archibald took up the clew
Thus kindly supplied, and eager he grew;
“Yes, yes; Archie promised he would;
I have brought you a valentine, Valentine Brown,”
(Here he smoothed his gray beard, and looked helplessly down),
“He’s so good to poor Archie, so good!”
The three stood in silence, two wondering no doubt
How this intricate problem would ever turn out,
And Valentine, thoughtful and kind,—
Felt pity for Archie, who meant for the best;
And for Dorothy—flushing like clouds in the west
And fearing he thought it designed.
He looked at the maiden—modest and sweet;
At her lovely blue eyes, her peach-blossom cheek
And sighed for his youth which had fled;
“She never could love me, good Archibald Gray,
Her beauty and youthfulness stand in the way,
Just look at my frost-covered head.”
“Please tell him, good Archie,” said Dorothy fair,
“That I love nothing better than silvery hair
When it crowns one so noble and true;
His heart all men say is exalted and grand,
He is known for his good deeds all over the land,
Loved by every one, equalled by few.”
“That heart, my good Archie, I lay at her feet
To spurn or to thrill with an ecstasy sweet;”
(And he reverently took her white hand,)
“That hand is his, Archie, and so is my heart
To have and to keep until death do us part
To meet in the Heavenly land.”