Then he forsook her one sad morn; She wept and sobbed, "Oh, love, come back!"

There only came to her forlorn b.u.t.terflies all black.

John Davidson [1857-1909]

UNSEEN SPIRITS

The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight-tide, And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride.

Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, And Honor charmed the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair,-- For all G.o.d ever gave to her She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true, For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo-- But honored well are charms to sell If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair-- A slight girl, lily-pale; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail: 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way!-- But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway!

Nathaniel Parker Willis [1806-1867]

"GRANDMITHER, THINK NOT I FORGET"

Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back to town, An' wander the old ways again, an' tread them up and down.

I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pa.s.s, Without I mind how good ye were unto a little la.s.s.

I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through, Without I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you.

And if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme, Mayhap 'tis that I'd change wi' ye, and gie my bed for thine, Would like to sleep in thine.

I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow, Without I wonder why it was ye loved the la.s.sie so.

Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a store,-- I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more.

Grandmither, gie me your still, white hands, that lie upon your breast, For mine do beat the dark all night, and never find me rest; They grope among the shadows, an' they beat the cold black air, They go seekin' in the darkness, an' they never find him there, They never find him there.

Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see His own a-burnin' full o' love that must not shine for me.

Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow, For mine be tremblin' wi' the wish that he must never know.

Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear My lad a-singin' in the night when I am sick wi' fear; A-singin' when the moonlight over a' the land is white-- Ah, G.o.d! I'll up an' go to him a-singin' in the night, A-callin' in the night.

Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart that has forgot to ache, For mine be fire within my breast and yet it cannot break.

Wi' every beat it's callin' for things that must not be,-- An' can ye not let me creep in an' rest awhile by ye?

A little la.s.s afeard o' dark slept by ye years agone-- Ah, she has found what night can hold 'twixt sundown an' the dawn!

So when I plant the rose an' rue above your grave for ye, Ye'll know it's under rue an' rose that I would like to be, That I would like to be.

Willa Sibert Cather [1875-

LITTLE WILD BABY

Through the fierce fever I nursed him, and then he said I was the woman--I!--that he would wed; He sent a boat with men for his own white priest, And he gave my father horses, and made a feast.

I am his wife: if he has forgotten me, I will not live for scorning eyes to see.

(Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)

Three moons ago--it was but three moons ago-- He took his gun, and started across the snow; For the river was frozen, the river that still goes down Every day, as I watch it, to find the town; The town whose name I caught from his sleeping lips, A place of many people and many ships.

(Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)

I to that town am going, to search the place, With his little white son in my arms, till I see his face.

Only once shall I need to look in his eyes, To see if his soul, as I knew it, lives or dies.

If it lives, we live, and if it is dead, we die, And the soul of my baby will never ask me why.

(Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.)

I have asked about the river: one answered me, That after the town it goes to find the sea; That great waves, able to break the stoutest bark, Are there, and the sea is very deep and dark.

If he is happy without me, so best, so best; I will take his baby and go away to my rest.

(Little wild baby, that knowest not where thou art going, Lie still! lie still! Thy mother will do the rowing.

The river flows swiftly, the sea is dark and deep: Little wild baby, lie still! Lie still and sleep.)

Margaret Thomson Janvier [1845-1913]

A CRADLE SONG

Come little babe, come silly soul, Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole, And to thyself unhappy chief: Sing lullaby, and lap it warm, Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

Thou little think'st and less dost know The cause of this thy mother's moan; Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone: Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail?

And know'st not yet what thou dost ail.

Come, little wretch--ah, silly heart!

Mine only joy, what can I more?

If there be any wrong thy smart, That may the destinies implore: 'Twas I, I say, against my will, I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile? O, thy sweet face!

Would G.o.d Himself He might thee see!-- No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace, I know right well, for thee and me: But come to mother, babe, and play, For father false is fled away.

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance Thy father home again to send, If death do strike me with his lance, Yet may'st thou me to him commend: If any ask thy mother's name, Tell how by love she purchased blame.

Then will his gentle heart soon yield: I know him of a n.o.ble mind: Although a lion in the field, A lamb in town thou shalt him find: Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid, His sugared words hath me betrayed.

Then may'st thou joy and be right glad; Although in woe I seem to moan, Thy father is no rascal lad, A n.o.ble youth of blood and bone: His glancing looks, if he once smile, Right honest women may beguile.

Come, little boy, and rock asleep; Sing lullaby and be thou still; I, that can do naught else but weep, Will sit by thee and wail my fill: G.o.d bless my babe, and lullaby From this thy father's quality.

Nicholas Breton [1545?-1626?]