On the margin of the woodland, hidden half by leafy shadows,
There stands a little cottage, ivy-clad and rose-embowered;
Before it stretches far and wide a wealth of waving meadows,
Behind it lies the forest with a slumbrous dark endowered.
Here, in the sunny days of Spring, from out among the bushes,
Spring-flowers peep on passers-by with bright eyes all aglow;
And through the gloaming's breathless reign the nightingale in gushes
Pours forth its plaintive melody all passionate and low.
But it is not the tender flowers that tempt my feet to wander
Down to that cottage through the weird and lonely light of even,
Nor are those notes the nightingale's that make me pause and ponder —
Is that wild strain a song of earth or music sent from heaven?
Ah, Rose! the rose blooms on your cheek, your bright eyes gleam and glisten.
As standing 'mong the dewy flowers you carol clear and wild;
What can an old man do but stand and strain his ear to listen,
Till all his heart is flooded and his senses are beguiled?
Strange that a voice has so much power and yet its thrilling sweetness
Awakes a slumbering echo of the old delightful days,
When all the warm blood through my veins coursed with a feverish fleetness,
And Youth and Hope lit up the world with their bewitching rays.
Again I seem the careless boy before whose raptured vision
The Future stretched in glittering and iris-gloried gleams,
And all the beckoning earth was bathed in light that seemed elysian —
A light that clothed my waking thoughts and coloured all my dreams.
Again I hear the solemn forest startled with the laughter
Of happy boys and maidens at their picnic 'neath the trees;
Till all its echoes rouse from sleep, and strange and hoarsely after
Give forth their ghostly murmurings upon the passing breeze.
Again I wander through the woods or down beside the river
To nurse mysterious yearnings, and to muse on many things;
To watch the dewy leaflets in the sunshine dance and quiver,
Or see the sailing swallows skimming on their dusky wings
Again a soft hand seeks mine own, and in its trustful clasping
I count a greater wealth than all the riches of a throne! —
So small and soft! — it seems to melt within my ruder grasping,
And yet its slightest touch hath power to thrill me to the bone!
Again we tread the forest-paths while curious leaves are peering,
To catch a glimpse of her sweet face ere light and shadow part:
Hand locked in hand we pass along in silent bliss, each fearing
To break with spoken words upon the whisperings of the heart!
Again I see her standing where her garden roses blossom —
The flow'rets listening to her as she carols all alone;
And I think, " When shall I wear thee, O my rosebud, on my bosom?
Oh, when shall all thy fragrance and thy beauty be mine own?"
" Mine own!" and yet I sometimes deemed the thought a wild presumption,
Would plead my dull unworthiness and press her to forget, —
Until a shower of sunny sparkles chased the mad assumption
From wonder-widened eyes that shone 'neath lashes long and wet!
Alas! for all the darling dreams I cherished with a holy
And tender joy! they seemed not made to melt and pass away!
Alas! for all the hopes that died and left me crushed and lowly,
To weep in wasting anguish o'er their premature decay!
'Tis long ago, and yet my heart will evermore remember
The sad and desolate day that was my darling's last on earth,
When all the mellow beauties of the many-hued September
Seemed frowning as the Winter frowns amid his dreary dearth!
From early, early morning I had lingered by her dwelling,
But ere the ruthless day had reached its brazen noon — she died!
Then I rose up, my brain on fire, my breast with tempest swelling,
And wandered, stunned and tearless, through the woodlands vast and wide.
Instinctively my footsteps sought a spot where oft together
We rested in the shelter of the shadows cool and deep,
And there I lay me down and hid my face among the heather,
And prayed my heart might melt in tears, — but no, I could not weep!
The air was chilly when I rose, and evening's dews were falling,
The parting sun poured streams of light between the level boles;
And up among the dark tree-tops the callow rooks were calling,
Their ghostly wailings sounding like the shrieks of prisoned souls.
I hastened from the forest, for a sickening dread came o'er me,
And sent a shiver through my frame, — a cold sweat to my brow;
I held my breath for very fear, 'till calm and still before me
I saw the village lie, and stood where I am standing now.
It was an evening such as this; the rosy light was streaming
On many objects, but it left her cottage in the shade;
While halfway up the eastern slope the yellow moon lay dreaming,
And faint sounds floated up from where the village children played.
The place is little changed since then, but, ah! how changed the feeling
From that with which I stood and gazed upon my crushing grief!
For then the fount of woe within my breast seemed all congealing,
But now a flood of tears can come and bring my heart relief.
Long years have followed that sad day, and yet through all their changes
Each spot about the village with her spirit seems imbued;
I feel her warm breath on my cheek in each faint breeze that ranges,
I hear her voice in each low sound that stirs the solemn wood!
And standing here without the hedge while maiden Rose is singing,
The lingering sunbeams pouring on her head their golden blaze,
Within my heart the magic bells of memory are ringing,
With a sweet sadness in their swell, the chimes of olden days!
Ah! other hands are busy 'mong the flowers she loved so dearly,
And other feet trip lightly down the little garden pad!
Where she once sang another voice is warbling wild and clearly!
Another Rose blooms where she bloomed! yet now I am not sad!
The village church lies basking in the waning light of even,
I know the glow is fading now from chancel and from nave;
The tall spire points where she has gone, — up to yon gloaming heaven,
And I grieve not that its shadow-lengthens o'er her quiet grave!
Nor do I mourn my dreary life with all its lone dejection,
Its lack of sympathy, — its lost delights, — its homeless hearth;
Since these have only served to lift on high the soul's affection,
And teach the heart to build its love-nest somewhere far from earth.
Still, often in the twilight, I can feel a Presence near me, —
Can hear the well-beloved accents whisper as of yore!
I start, — 'tis but a dream! — yet even dreams have power to cheer me,
And I muse and muse upon it till the vision comes once more!
Am I growing mad? I know not. Am I wearing near my dotage?
I cannot tell; — but oft the fancy makes my heart rejoice,
That her bright spirit hovers round the dear old ivied cottage,
And that the twilight songs are echoed by no earthly voice!
And so each day at eventide when pale stars dusk and glimmer
Like angel-eyes that strive to pierce through heaven's all-placid blue,
And light wanes in the western sky, and earth grows dim and dimmer,
And wanton wild-flowers drop asleep all drunken with the dew, —
I wander by the forest-skirts and feel her white hands flinging
Sweet thoughts of comfort o'er my soul to soothe its lonely care,
While, ever and anon, there comes the fairy music ringing
In sweeps of passionate plaintiveness upon the eddying air!
And strange thoughts struggle at my heart whene'er I stand and hear it;
In vain I'peer into the gloom, — no glowing form is there!
But I know this body will not long beclog my straining spirit,
That yearns to fly and meet her in the sunny realms of air!
Sweep on, O barren Day, and bring the hours that will be sweeter!
Turn on your dusky wheels and pass from the dim heavens, O Night!
Hasten the moments rich in bliss when I shall spring to meet her,
And all my darkened life shall merge in everlasting light!
There stands a little cottage, ivy-clad and rose-embowered;
Before it stretches far and wide a wealth of waving meadows,
Behind it lies the forest with a slumbrous dark endowered.
Here, in the sunny days of Spring, from out among the bushes,
Spring-flowers peep on passers-by with bright eyes all aglow;
And through the gloaming's breathless reign the nightingale in gushes
Pours forth its plaintive melody all passionate and low.
But it is not the tender flowers that tempt my feet to wander
Down to that cottage through the weird and lonely light of even,
Nor are those notes the nightingale's that make me pause and ponder —
Is that wild strain a song of earth or music sent from heaven?
Ah, Rose! the rose blooms on your cheek, your bright eyes gleam and glisten.
As standing 'mong the dewy flowers you carol clear and wild;
What can an old man do but stand and strain his ear to listen,
Till all his heart is flooded and his senses are beguiled?
Strange that a voice has so much power and yet its thrilling sweetness
Awakes a slumbering echo of the old delightful days,
When all the warm blood through my veins coursed with a feverish fleetness,
And Youth and Hope lit up the world with their bewitching rays.
Again I seem the careless boy before whose raptured vision
The Future stretched in glittering and iris-gloried gleams,
And all the beckoning earth was bathed in light that seemed elysian —
A light that clothed my waking thoughts and coloured all my dreams.
Again I hear the solemn forest startled with the laughter
Of happy boys and maidens at their picnic 'neath the trees;
Till all its echoes rouse from sleep, and strange and hoarsely after
Give forth their ghostly murmurings upon the passing breeze.
Again I wander through the woods or down beside the river
To nurse mysterious yearnings, and to muse on many things;
To watch the dewy leaflets in the sunshine dance and quiver,
Or see the sailing swallows skimming on their dusky wings
Again a soft hand seeks mine own, and in its trustful clasping
I count a greater wealth than all the riches of a throne! —
So small and soft! — it seems to melt within my ruder grasping,
And yet its slightest touch hath power to thrill me to the bone!
Again we tread the forest-paths while curious leaves are peering,
To catch a glimpse of her sweet face ere light and shadow part:
Hand locked in hand we pass along in silent bliss, each fearing
To break with spoken words upon the whisperings of the heart!
Again I see her standing where her garden roses blossom —
The flow'rets listening to her as she carols all alone;
And I think, " When shall I wear thee, O my rosebud, on my bosom?
Oh, when shall all thy fragrance and thy beauty be mine own?"
" Mine own!" and yet I sometimes deemed the thought a wild presumption,
Would plead my dull unworthiness and press her to forget, —
Until a shower of sunny sparkles chased the mad assumption
From wonder-widened eyes that shone 'neath lashes long and wet!
Alas! for all the darling dreams I cherished with a holy
And tender joy! they seemed not made to melt and pass away!
Alas! for all the hopes that died and left me crushed and lowly,
To weep in wasting anguish o'er their premature decay!
'Tis long ago, and yet my heart will evermore remember
The sad and desolate day that was my darling's last on earth,
When all the mellow beauties of the many-hued September
Seemed frowning as the Winter frowns amid his dreary dearth!
From early, early morning I had lingered by her dwelling,
But ere the ruthless day had reached its brazen noon — she died!
Then I rose up, my brain on fire, my breast with tempest swelling,
And wandered, stunned and tearless, through the woodlands vast and wide.
Instinctively my footsteps sought a spot where oft together
We rested in the shelter of the shadows cool and deep,
And there I lay me down and hid my face among the heather,
And prayed my heart might melt in tears, — but no, I could not weep!
The air was chilly when I rose, and evening's dews were falling,
The parting sun poured streams of light between the level boles;
And up among the dark tree-tops the callow rooks were calling,
Their ghostly wailings sounding like the shrieks of prisoned souls.
I hastened from the forest, for a sickening dread came o'er me,
And sent a shiver through my frame, — a cold sweat to my brow;
I held my breath for very fear, 'till calm and still before me
I saw the village lie, and stood where I am standing now.
It was an evening such as this; the rosy light was streaming
On many objects, but it left her cottage in the shade;
While halfway up the eastern slope the yellow moon lay dreaming,
And faint sounds floated up from where the village children played.
The place is little changed since then, but, ah! how changed the feeling
From that with which I stood and gazed upon my crushing grief!
For then the fount of woe within my breast seemed all congealing,
But now a flood of tears can come and bring my heart relief.
Long years have followed that sad day, and yet through all their changes
Each spot about the village with her spirit seems imbued;
I feel her warm breath on my cheek in each faint breeze that ranges,
I hear her voice in each low sound that stirs the solemn wood!
And standing here without the hedge while maiden Rose is singing,
The lingering sunbeams pouring on her head their golden blaze,
Within my heart the magic bells of memory are ringing,
With a sweet sadness in their swell, the chimes of olden days!
Ah! other hands are busy 'mong the flowers she loved so dearly,
And other feet trip lightly down the little garden pad!
Where she once sang another voice is warbling wild and clearly!
Another Rose blooms where she bloomed! yet now I am not sad!
The village church lies basking in the waning light of even,
I know the glow is fading now from chancel and from nave;
The tall spire points where she has gone, — up to yon gloaming heaven,
And I grieve not that its shadow-lengthens o'er her quiet grave!
Nor do I mourn my dreary life with all its lone dejection,
Its lack of sympathy, — its lost delights, — its homeless hearth;
Since these have only served to lift on high the soul's affection,
And teach the heart to build its love-nest somewhere far from earth.
Still, often in the twilight, I can feel a Presence near me, —
Can hear the well-beloved accents whisper as of yore!
I start, — 'tis but a dream! — yet even dreams have power to cheer me,
And I muse and muse upon it till the vision comes once more!
Am I growing mad? I know not. Am I wearing near my dotage?
I cannot tell; — but oft the fancy makes my heart rejoice,
That her bright spirit hovers round the dear old ivied cottage,
And that the twilight songs are echoed by no earthly voice!
And so each day at eventide when pale stars dusk and glimmer
Like angel-eyes that strive to pierce through heaven's all-placid blue,
And light wanes in the western sky, and earth grows dim and dimmer,
And wanton wild-flowers drop asleep all drunken with the dew, —
I wander by the forest-skirts and feel her white hands flinging
Sweet thoughts of comfort o'er my soul to soothe its lonely care,
While, ever and anon, there comes the fairy music ringing
In sweeps of passionate plaintiveness upon the eddying air!
And strange thoughts struggle at my heart whene'er I stand and hear it;
In vain I'peer into the gloom, — no glowing form is there!
But I know this body will not long beclog my straining spirit,
That yearns to fly and meet her in the sunny realms of air!
Sweep on, O barren Day, and bring the hours that will be sweeter!
Turn on your dusky wheels and pass from the dim heavens, O Night!
Hasten the moments rich in bliss when I shall spring to meet her,
And all my darkened life shall merge in everlasting light!