Classic Poem

Alone in the twilight tender,
I plan the coming days,
While the supple flames are lapping
In weird, fantastic ways;
When out of the startled darkness
There springs a single note, —
And the first light strains of a prelude
Slow into the silence float.
'T is mother's touch! How quietly she always enters in!
With child-like throb I listen now to hear the song begin:
— Roy's wife of Aldivalloch! — Ah, me! The woful shame!
And — how she cheated him — I learn with honest ire and blame.
And then a moment's silence, a fallen music-page —
And gone all thought of cruel wife and sorry lover's rage.
The shadowy parlor-walls grow wide and change to meadows fair,
For the sweet — Blue Bells of Scotland — are waving in the air.
The summer sky is over them, the fragrant breezes blow,
But, ere they fade, the voice begins in cadence sad and slow.
— What's this dull town to me? — it sings. — Ah, what indeed, — I sigh, —
For — Robin is not here — it sobs, in plaintive, broken cry.
Poor, lonely lassie! weeping sore. My heart is with her still,
When suddenly, in changeful mood, there comes a martial thrill;
And now I know that through the land one burst of fervor rings,
As — Who 'll be king but Charlie? — the sweet voice faintly sings.
Ah, good it is to listen here, in flitting shadows hid! —
Till comes a silken rustle; and then with folded lid
The old piano silent stands, — and the entry's swinging light
Reveals the tall, retreating form, framed in the doorway bright.
Only a moment. Vanished now the softly-kerchiefed gown;
And once again, the firelight chasing shadows up and down,
Is all I see, as thoughtfully I lift the warm brass tongs,
And turn the embers over to the echoes of old songs.