« ZurückWeiter »
mother from thine arms was torn, And laid beneath the cold and silent tomb. I felt 'twere wrong to leave thee thus alone. Yet, Rodolph was unchanged; and when the storms Of adverse fortune drove us from our home, To seek a shelter in a foreign clime, I saw the tear-drop gather in his eye; He clasped my hand convulsively in his, And whispered, “Ella, thou shalt yet be mine." Three long and weary years since then have passed, And he perchance ere this hath wooed and won A lovelier maiden. Oh, how I have prayed And struggled to forget him, but in vain. She ceased. The old man with attentive ear Had listened to the long suspected cause Of that deep sorrow, which too well he knew Had nipp'd the rose-bud in its tender bloom, And doomed his idol to an early grave. Oh, what a sacrifice, he groaned aloud; God bless thee, Ella; I have ill repaid A love so holy and so pure as thine. 'Twas then a traveler on his jaded steed Paused at that dwelling, and in breathless haste Flew up the narrow staircase; hope and fear Alternate whispering to his anxious heart. The old man's last words fell upon his ear : It is enough, he cried; thank heaven she lives! And springing forward, in his trembling arms He clasped that dying girl, now but the wreck Of what he once had deemed so beautiful. It was too late. One long and lingering gaze From those deep eyes of mild ethereal blue, And with her head pillowed upon his breast, And his dear name upon her quivering lip, Her gentle spirit passed from earth away, With scarce a sigh to tell that she had gone.
BY MISS MARGARET BELCHES,
Of the Indiana Institution for the Blindh*
I come, I come, o'er valley and hill,
The tree of the forest, the grass of the plain,
I come not as spring with its gifts profuse,
The hum of the insect, the song of the bird,
I come not as spring, with its long sunny hours,
I come to admonish the children of clay,
* It may be interesting to the reader, to know that this authoress dictated hor poems to a deaf and dumb sister, her usual amanuensis, by means of tho manual alphahet.
Where the smile of the Lord is his people's delight; Where the soul is untouched by a canker or blight; Where the heart's best affections forever shall bloom, Beyond the dark valley of death and the tomb.
THE DYING SISTER.
BY MARGARET BELCHES.
Sister! I'm going home; a voice of love,
In dreams was gently murmured in my ear,
Sweet, as of plaintive music soft and low-
They stood around my bed a shining band,
And on their heavenly pinions far away
There flowers of fadeless beauty sweetly blow-
Bright was the starry pathway that we trud,
Surpassing fair the scenes that met our eyes;
And music filled the air in ceaseless flow-
I saw them, too, the loved, the lost of earth,
The cherished ones who watched our infant years,
They smiled on me as none now smile below
Our sister, too, was there with radiant brow,
She of the sunny smile and dove-like eye,
She whispered come, in heavenly accents low-
And he was there, the wanderer from the fold,
For whom so oft in agony we prayed;
His shining robes were white as spotless snow-
Death's seal is set upon this fevered brow,
O'er these dim eyes the gathering shadows come; Heaven's zephyrs seem to play around me now, And woo me to my far-off distant home;
None view such scenes and longer dwell below-
THE FOREST TREE.
BY MARGARET BELOHES.
Tree of the forest, gigantic and old,
Thou hast seen the glad summer in beauty approach,
Thou hast shivered and tossed in the whirlwind's blasty
The king of the forest, long, long hast thou stood,
In days long gone by, how often perchance,
Thou hast seen the pale captive, and heard his wild shriek,
away with those scenes of darkness and blood,
Perchance thou hast seen on bright summer eves,
And there she has listened to love's magic tone,
The wayworn traveler hails with delight