Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/687

 1850-60.] CORNELIA W. LAWS. 671 Like the falling snow-drifts gleaming, O'er a lone and empty chair. Where the church-bell now is throbbing, Blended with the storm's refrain. O'er a grave like mourners sobbing, Falls the plashing Autumn rain. Wild the shriveled leaves are sweeping, Down the walks upon the wind, And with loving nestle creeping In the footprints left behind. When the groves with buds were teeming, Wept a maiden silent there, Where the curtains white are streaming O'er that lone and empty chair. At her side pale blossoms drumming Soft against the window-pane, Seem'd to say, " He is not coming — Cease, oh! cease, thou weep'st in vain." Alas ! with weeping, watching, waiting. From her cheek the roses fled ; But with fondness unabating, Sunk she to her dreamless bed. At that casement still is basking Evermore, that empty chair, And its silence seems an asking For that pale form, passing fair. SIX LITTLE FEET ON THE FENDER. In my heart there liveth a picture, Of a kitchen rude and old, Where the firelight tripped o'er the rafters, And reddened the roof's brown mould ; Gilding the steam from the kettle That hummed on the foot-worn heai'th. Throughout all the livelong evening Its measure of drowsy mirth. Because of the three light shadows That frescoed that rude old room — Because of the voices echoed, Up 'mid the rafters' gloom — Because of the feet on the fender, Six restless, white little feet — The thoughts of that dear old kitchen Are to me so fresh and sweet. When the first dash on the window Told of the coming rain. Oh ! where are the fair young faces, That crowded against the pane? While bits of firelight stealing Their dimpled cheeks between, Went struggling out in the darkness, In shreds of silver sheen. Two of the feet grew weary. One dreary, dismal day. And we tied them with snow-white ribbons, Leaving him there by the way. There was fresh clay on the fender That weary, wint'ry night. For the four little feet had tracked it From his grave on the bright hill's height. Oh ! why, on this darksome evening, This evening of rain and sleet. Rest my feet all alone on the hearthstone ? Oh ! where are those other feet ? Are they treading the pathway of virtue That will bring us together above ? Or have they made steps that will dampen A sister's tireless love ? BEHIND THE POST. The tint of dying day reposes Lightly on the blushing roses ; Foolish Nannie ! thus to wait, Sighing at the garden gate ; " Never fear ! never fear ! " Some one said it, very near.