Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/560

 HELEN TRUESDELL. In the year 1856, Ephraim Morgan and Sons, Cincinnati, published the fifth edi- tion of a duodecimo volume of 212 pages, entitled, "Poems by Helen Truesdell." Mrs. T. was then a resident of Newport, Kentucky. She was, in 1853 and 'oi, a regular contributor to the Parlor Magazine, a monthly of considerable merit, which Jethro Jackson published from 1853 to 1856, in Cincinnati. Mrs. Truesdell had previously written for the Ladies' Repository, but since the publication of her book, has not, so far as our knowledge goes, addressed the public. Her volume was favorably noticed by prominent journalists. The Cincinnati Enquirer said : " That the book possesses high poetic merit we must allow, — this, by the way, is the concession of our judgment — not the mere mouth-praise of gallantry for the sex. Her style is simple, pure and sweet, tmged with a melancholy spirit, which is often rather a charm to poetry than a defect." THE YOUNG WIFE'S SONG. I LIST for thy footsteps, my darling ; I've waited and watched for thee long: The dim woods have heard my complain- ings. And sorrow has saddened my song. The last rays of sunset are gilding The hill-tops with purple and gold; And, lo! in yon azure dominion, Does a beautiful rainbow unfold. Like the hues of that rainbow, my spirit All fondly is blended with thine ; Then how canst thou linger away, love, When thou know'st this fond spirit will pine ? The game and the chase are alluring, I know, my bold hunter, for thee ; But when borne on thy swift Arab courser. Do thy thoughts ever wander to me ? Or e'er to the home of my childhood, The beautiful cot far away. Where the birds sang so sweet, in their gladness. And I was as happy as they? The lone willow droops in its sadn ess ; The stern oak stands sturdy and still ; But a loved form is seen in the distance, And footsteps are heard on the hill. " 'Tis he ! 'tis my Ulric ! I hear him, I see him; O! joy, he is here!" She threw back her curls in her gladness, And silently brushed off a tear. There were low-murmured words of for- giveness ; Fond clasping of hands, and a kiss. The past ! ah ! the past is forgotten — What could mai- such a moment as this! ( 544)