Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/283



266

IN

THE

DOORWAY.—DEAD.

sweet illusions; for with the rising sun, there would stand curly-head again in the door, her little pink toes peeping out from under her night-dress, and the ﬁaxen curls hanging about cheeks, that in color rivaled the interior of the delicate sea-shell. “Looking like an angel did you say?” Do the angels have that wicked twinkle in their eyes? No, no, with the ﬁrst opening of those blue orbs the angels took their ﬂight, and mischief reigned supreme. Father, mother, aunts and cousins, all wondered what that child was coming to. Grandma, in her gentle way, said she never saw the beat of that child for mischief, no, never.

One year ago to-day, I kissed, for the last time, the rosy mouth and dimpled shoulders of our little two-year-old Florence—I may kiss again a tailor, perhaps a fairer Florence, but not our little two-year-old Florence, she has gone forever.

IN THE DOORWAY.

BY

EDWARD The beautiful month of June had come, And the crimson roses were all a-bloom, As we sat in the door one Sabbath eve, Where the air was sweet with their rich perfume.

Quietude slept on the Summer air, All Nature was hushed in a deep repose; The song of the bird was heard no more, And the bee was asleep in the leaves of the rose. The mystical stars like censers of gold In the vaulted dome swung to and fro, And they chanted the glorious hymn that rolled Through the Heavens six thousand years ago. As we sat in the doorway and scented the air So sweet with the breath of the queenly rose, Forgotten was each recollection of care, And the Lethe of loving had banished our woes. I remember thejoy that thrilled my heart As your head lay Close to my swelling breast, For I knew that your heart was mine, although The tale of its love was nnconfessed. We sat and gazed on the golden stars, Hand locked in hand, cheek pressed to cheek, But our lips were as dumb as the stars we saw,

A.

DARBY.

Love in the holy hush of eve, Love in that sweet, unbroken repose: Love in the beauty that clothed the ﬁelds, The pleasant vaies, and the mountains tall, Love in the beautiful spirit of night, But the love in our hearts exceeded it all! Oh. what Were a world like this to us If the spirit of love were never near To illumine the shadowy vaies of life, And to soften the sorrows that wait on us here? ’Twere dark as the raylcss caves of earth, ’Twcre cold as the damp and dismal tomb, ’Twere bleak as a barren desert land,

Where the rain ne’er falls. nor the ﬂow’rets bloom. Loving alone is the spirit of God, Our loving of His is a picture dim, And if this be so. is it wrong to say Who ioveth the most is most like Him? All of this and more came into our hearts As we sat in the door—I mind it well— And a thousand other things bright with love, Too happy for speech, and too many to tell. Our hearts have been better and purer. I ween, Since then than they ever had been before, ; And unto our dying day we will bless The sweet June eve when we sat in the door.

For who that is biest as were we, can speak?

There was love in the brilliant vault on high, Love in the breath of the stately rose;

DEAD. BY

MARY E. WILCOX. Want evening lights her silver spheres, And slowly pales the Western red, I think of thee with painless tears, As of the dead—the quiet dead.

Sometimes in dreams I see thy grave, With forest-mosses o'er it spread, Where snow-bloomed hlackberry~bushes wave, I dream of thee as of the dead.

Thou livest; somewhere the green earth Still hears thy voice and feels thy tread; But since I know thee void of worth, I think of thee as of the dead.

Ah! once my listening heart would bound And thrill if but thy name was said! My fair ideal is discrowned, I think of thee as of the dead.

Rainbows and moonbeams lavishly I wreathed about my idol’s head, Its worthlessness I would not see— But now it lies dethroned and dead.

I wow ‘ a h alo for t l‘y b row, I deemed thee from all faults exempt-— I think upon my weakness now, With a calm smile of self-contempt. The God who tints my heart has led, (Albeit through passages of pain,) To think of thee as of the dead.