Upon a milk-white pony,
Fit for a faery queen,
Was the loveliest little damsel
His eyes had ever seen :
A serving-man was holding
The leading rein, to guide
The pony and its mistress,
Who cantered by his side.
Her sunny ringlets round her
A golden cloud had made,
While her large hat was keeping
Her calm blue eyes in shade;
One hand held fast the silken reins
To keep her steed in check,
The other pulled his tangled mane,
Or stroked his glossy neck.
And as the boy brought water,
And loosed the rein, he heard
The sweetest voice that thanked him
In one low gentle word;
She turned her blue eyes from him,
Looked up, and smiled to see
The hanging purple blossoms
Upon the Judas-Tree ;
And showed it with a gesture,
Half pleading, half command,
Till he broke the fairest blossom,
And laid it in her hand;
And she tied it to her saddle
With a ribbon from her hair, While her happy laugh rang gayly, Like silver on the air.
But the champing steeds were rested,
The horsemen now spurred on,
And down the dusty highway
They vanished and were gone.
Years passed, and many a traveller
Paused at the old inn-door,
But the little milk-white pony
And the child returned no more.
Years passed, the apple-branches
A deeper shadow shed;
And many a time the Judas-Tree,
Blossom and leaf, lay dead;
When on the loitering western breeze
Came the bells' merry sound,
And flowery arches rose, and flags
And banners waved around.
Maurice stood there expectant:
The bridal train would stay
Some moments at the inn-door,
The eager watchers say;
They come,
the cloud of dust draws near, 'Mid all the state and pride, He only sees the golden hair
And blue eyes of the bride.
The same, yet, ah, still fairer;
He knew the face once more That bent above the pony's neck Years past at that inn-door: Her shy and smiling eyes looked round, Unconscious of the place,
Unconscious of the eager gaze
He fixed upon her face.
He plucked a blossom from the tree
The Judas-Tree- and cast
Its purple fragrance towards the Bride,
A message from the Past.
The signal came, the horses plunged,
Once more she smiled around:
The purple blossom in the dust
Lay trampled on the ground.
Again the slow years fleeted,
Their passage only known
By the height the Passion-flower
Around the porch had grown;
And many a passing traveller
Paused at the old inn-door,
But the bride, so fair and blooming,
The bride returned no more.
One winter morning, Maurice,
Watching the branches bare,
Rustling and waving dimly
In the gray and misty air,
Saw blazoned on a carriage
Once more the well-known shield,
The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis
Upon a silver field.
He looked was that pale woman,
So grave, so worn, so sad,
The child, once young and smiling,
The bride, once fair and glad?
What grief had dimmed that glory,
And brought that dark eclipse
Upon her blue eyes' radiance,
And paled those trembling lips?
What memory of past sorrow,
What stab of present pain, Brought that deep look of anguish, That watched the dismal rain, That watched (with the absent spirit That looks, yet does not see) The dead and leafless branches Upon the Judas-Tree.
The slow dark months crept onward Upon their icy way,
Till April broke in showers,
And Spring smiled forth in May;
Upon the apple-blossoms
The sun shone bright again,
When slowly up the highway
Came a long funeral train.
The bells tolled slowly, sadly,
For a noble spirit fled;
Slowly, in pomp and honor,
They bore the quiet dead.
Upon a black-plumed charger
One rode, who held a shield,
Where stars and azure fleurs-de-lis
Shone on a silver field.
'Mid all that homage given
To a fluttering heart at rest,
Perhaps an honest sorrow
Dwelt only in one breast. One by the inn-door standing Watched with fast-dropping tears
The long procession passing,
And thought of bygone years.
The boyish, silent homage
To child and bride unknown,
The pitying tender sorrow
Kept in his heart alone,
Now laid upon the coffin
With a purple flower, might be
Told to the cold, dead sleeper;
The rest could only see
A fragrant purple blossom,
Plucked from a Judas-Tree.
OU wonder that my tears should flow
In listening to that simple strain ;
That those unskilful sounds should fill
My soul with joy and pain:
How can you tell what thoughts it stirs
Within my heart again?
You wonder why that common phrase,
So all unmeaning to your ear,
Should stay me in my merriest mood,
And thrill my soul to hear:
How can you tell what ancient charm
Has made me hold it dear?
You marvel that I turn away
From all those flowers so fair and bright,
And gaze at this poor herb, till tears
Arise and dim my sight:
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