"Not much?" would she say with her proud lip's curl-- "Only the life of a sewing-girl?"

Now love for me in his heart did linger-- I saw the lady, his promised bride, I saw his ring on her slender finger, As she weeping stood by his mother's side.

That same ring shone, as he lifted me Dripping and cold from the sea-waves bitter.

I had thought Heaven's light I next should see, But earth's sun shone in its ruby glitter; I had thought when I looked in the Lord's mild face, That He would forgive my rashness and sin, When He knew there was not a single place, Not a place so small that I could creep in.

And I wanted a home, and I longed for love, And G.o.d and mother were both above.

But he showed me my sin, and taught me to live, Above this life of tumult and whirl, Though I was only a sewing-girl.

What shall I do with the life he won, From death that day, in a hard-won battle?

Shall I lay it down e'er the rising sun Looks down on the city's roar and rattle?

Shall I lay it down e'er the midnight dim With horrible shadows is roofed and paved?

No, I will make it so pure and sweet, That angels shall say with smiles to him, When we meet above on the golden street: "Behold the soul of her you saved."

Maybe it shall add to his crown one pearl, Though only the soul of a sewing-girl.

HARRY THE FIRST.

In his arm-chair, warmly cushioned, In the quiet earned by labor, Life's reposeful Indian summer, Grandpa sits; and lets the paper Lie upon his knee unheeded.

Shine his cheeks like winter apples, Gleams his smile like autumn sunshine, As he looks on little Harry, First-born of the house of Graham, Bravely cutting teeth in silence, Cutting teeth with looks heroic.

Some deep thought seems moving Grandpa, Ponders he awhile in silence, Then he turns, and says to Grandma, "Nancy, do you think that ever There was such a child before?"

Grandma, with prim precision The seam-st.i.tch impaleth deftly On her sharp and glittering needle, Then she turns and answers calmly, With a deep a.s.surance--"Never Was there such a child before!"

Papa thinks so, but in manly Dignity controls his feelings; More than half a year a father, He must show a cool composure, He must stately be if ever.

But his dark eyes plainly tell it, Tell it, as he sayeth proudly, "Papa's man is little Harry."

Mamma, maybe, does not speak it, But she prints the thought on velvet, Rosy-hued, with fondest kisses, When the pink, soft page is lying Folded closely to her bosom.

A little farther goes his auntie, Aged fourteen--age of fancy; She looks down the future ages With her wise, prophetic vision; Sees the babies pa.s.s before her, Babies of the twentieth century, All the long and dusty ages, To the thousand years of glory.

Oh, the host of bright-eyed children, Thronging like the stars at midnight, Faces sweet and countless, as the Rose-leaves of a thousand summers.

All the pretty heads so curly That shall hold a riper wisdom Than our youthful planet dreams of; All the ranks of dimple shoulders, That shall move Time's rolling chariot Nearer to the golden city; Vieweth these the blue-eyed prophet, Still the oracle says calmly, Speaks the seer with golden tresses-- "No! there never was, nor will be Such a child as our Harry, Such a n.o.ble boy as Harry."

Summer brings a wealth of flowers, Flowers of every form and color, Orange, crimson, royal purple, All along the mountain pa.s.ses, All along the pleasant valley, Low the emerald branches bendeth With their weight of summer glory.

But they do not waken in us Half the tender, blissful feeling, Half the pure and sweet emotion As the first spring-flower in April, With its lashes tinged with crimson, Partly raised from eyes half-timid, Fearful that the snow will drown it; How we love the dainty blossom, How we wear it in our bosom.

Just so with the tree ancestral, Many flowers may blossom on it, But the first wee bud that's grafted, To its heart, ah, how we love it; Others may be loved as fondly, But they are not loved so proudly, Loved so blindly, so entirely.

Yes, when first the heart's door opens To the touch of baby fingers, Quick the dimpled feet will bear them To the dearest place and warmest Plenty room enough for other Buds of beauty, buds of promise, In the heart's capacious chambers; But the first is firmly settled-- Little Harry's firmly settled In the centre of affection; Later ones must settle round him.

THE CRIMINAL'S BETROTHED.

As on a waveless sea, a vessel strikes Upon a treacherous rock; Waking the sailors from their happy dreams By the swift, terrible shock.

Dreaming of shaded village streets, and home, Forgetting the cruel sea Till the shock came--so woke I, yet I know 'Twas Love, I loved, not he.

'Tis not the star the wave so wildly clasps, Only its form reflected in the stream; 'Tis not a broken heart I mourn, Only a broken dream.

I should have died when he was brought so low, Had it been him I loved, Died clinging to him, as to the blasted oak The ivy clings unmoved.

'Twas Love that looked on me with strange, sweet eyes Burning with marvellous flame; Love was the idol that I worshipped, though I gave to it his name.

I gave to Love his name, his glance, his brow, His low-toned voice, his smile, Oh, soul be patient; I can sever them But yet a little while--

Before I put away these outward forms Deceiving, sweet disguises, which Love wore Let my heart break into regretful tears Just once, and then no more.

Just once, as fond friends watch the fading sail Bearing away a guest of truest worth, They give this little time to grief, and then Return to their desolate hearth,

And build new fires, and gather dewy flowers, Let the pure air into the vacant room, So light, and bloom, and sweetness, all Shall penetrate its gloom.

I will be patient, in a little time Quiet, and full of rest, G.o.ds's peace will come, and, like a soft-winged bird, Settle upon my breast.

Not always thus shall beat my restless heart Like a wild eagle 'gainst its prison-bars; In some calm twilight of the future time I will sit, calm-browed, underneath the stars.

GONE BEFORE.

Smooth the hair; Silken waves of sunny brown Lay upon the white brow down, Crowned with the blossoms rare; Lilies on a golden stream, Ne'er to float in summer air Wreathed with meadow daisies fair.

Lay away the broken crown And your broken dream, With one shining tress of hair, Nevermore to need your care.

A WOMAN'S HEART.

My heart sings like a bird to-night That flies to its nest in the soft twilight, And sings in its brooding bliss; Ah! I so low, and he so high, What could he find to love? I cry, Did ever love stoop so low as this?

As a miser jealously counts his gold, I sit and dream of my wealth untold, From the curious world apart; Too sacred my joy for another eye, I treasure it tenderly, silently, And hide it away in my heart.

Dearer to me than the costliest crown That ever on queenly forehead shone Is the kiss he left on my brow; Would I change his smile for a royal gem?

His love for a monarch's diadem?

Change it? Ah, no, ah, no!

My heart sings like a bird to-night That flies away to its nest of light To brood o'er its living bliss; Ah! I so low, and he so high, What could he find to love? I cry, Did ever love stoop so low as this?

WARNING.

When enwrapped in rosy pleasure, Our careless pulses beat, With a rhythm sweet, sweet, To the music's merry measure.

When world waves rise around us, With soft transparent weight, Light in seeming, yet so great, The liquid chains have bound us.