Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/365

 1840-50.] ALICE GARY. 349 Till the bird had hushed its singing In the silvery sycamore, And the nest was left unsheltered In the lilac by the door ; Saying, still, that she was happy — None so much as she was blest — None, of all the many maidens In the Valley of the West. III. DowTi the heath and o'er the moorland Blows the wild gust high and higher, Suddenly the maiden pauses Spinning at the cabin fire, And quick from her taper fingers Falls away the flaxen thread. As some neighbor entering, whispers, "Jessie Carol lieth dead." Then, as pressing close her forehead To the window-pane she sees Two stout men together dig'jnnsr Underneath the church-yard trees. And she asks in kindest accents, '' Was she happy when she died ? " — Sobbing all the w^hile to see them Void the heavy earth aside ; Or, upon their mattocks leaning. Through their fingers numb to blow, For the wnnt'ry air is chilly, And the grave-mounds white with snow ; And the neighbor answers softly, "Do not, dear one, do not cry; At the break of day she asked us If we thought that she must die ; And when I had told her, sadly, That I feared it would be so, Smiled she, saying, ' 'Twill be weary Digging in the church-yard snow ! ' That its paths at best were rough;' And she whispered, she was ready, That her life was long enough. So she lay serene and silent, Till the wind that wildly drove, Soothed her from her mortal sorrow, Like the lullaby of love." Thus they talked, while one that loved her Smoothed her tresses dai'k and long. Wrapped her white shroud down, and simply Wove her sorrow to this song ! IV. Sweetly sleeps she ! pain and passion Bum no longer on her brow — Weary watchers, ye may leave her — She will never need you now ! While the wild spring bloomed and faded. Till the autumn came and passed. Calmly, patiently, she waited — Rest has come to her at last ! Never have the blessed angels, As they walked with her apart. Kept pale Sorrow's battling armies Half so softly from her heart. Therefore, think not, ye that loved her. Of the pallor hushed and dread. Where the winds like heavy mourners, Cry about her lonesome bed, But of white hands softly reaching As the shadow o'er her fell, Downwai'd from the golden bastion Of the eternal citadel. PICTURES OF MEMORY. Among the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's -wall, Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth the best of all. ■ Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe. Not for the violets golden, That sprinkle the vale below ; Not for the milk-white lilies. That lean from the fragrant hedge,
 * Earth,' I said, ' was very dreary —