Slike strani
PDF
ePub
[blocks in formation]

SHE

Death of Little Nell.

HE was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter-berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. "When I die, put me near something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." Those were her words.

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird, a poor slight thing, which the pressure of a finger would have crushed, was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was white and motionless forever. Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues? All gone. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; but peace and perfect happiness was born-imaged—in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change.

Yes, the old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face, which had passed, like a dream, through haunts of misery and care. At the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold wet night, at the same still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look.

The old man took one languid arm in his, and held the small hand to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile-the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and, as he said it, he looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her.

She was dead, and past all help or need of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast, the garden she had tended, the eyes she had gladdened, the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtful hour, the paths she had trodden, as it were, but yesterday, could know her no more.

She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night, but as the hours crept on, she sunk to sleep. They could tell, by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man: they were of no painful scenes, but of those who had helped and used them kindly; for she often said "God bless you!" with great fervor. Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once; and that was at beautiful music which she said was in the air. God knows. It may have been.

Opening her eyes at last from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned again to the old man, with a lovely smile on her face,— such, they said, as they had never seen, and never could forget, and clung with both arms about his neck. They did not know that she was dead at first.

[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[graphic][merged small]
[ocr errors]

But this it was that made me move

As light as carrier bird in air;
I loved the weight I had to bear
Because it needed help of love.

Nor could I weary, heart or limb,

When mighty love would cleave in twain The lading of a single pain,

And part it, giving half to him.

But I remained, whose hopes were dim,

Whose life, whose thoughts were little worth To wander on a darkened earth,

Where all things round me breathed of him.

O friendship, equal-poised control,

O heart, with kindliest motion warm,

O sacred essence, other form,

O solemn ghost, O crowned soul!

Yet none could better know than I How much of act at human hands The sense of human will demands, By which we dare to live or die.

Whatever way my days decline,

I felt and feel, though left alone, His being working in mine own, The footstep of his life in mine.

My pulses therefore beat again

For other friends that once I met;

Nor can it suit me to forget

The mighty hopes that makes us men.

I woo your love: I count it crime

To mourn for any overmuch;
I, the divided half of such
A friendship as had mastered time;
Which masters time, indeed, and is
Eternal, separate from fears:
The all assuming months and years
Can take no part away from this.

O days and hours, your work is this,
To hold me from my proper place
A little while from his embrace,
For fuller gain of after bliss.
That out of distance might ensue
Desire of nearness doubly sweet;
And unto meeting when we meet,
Delight a hundred-fold accrue.

The hills are shadows, and they flow,
From form to form, and nothing stands;
They melt like mists, the solid lands,
Like clouds they shape themselves and go.

But in my spirit will I dwell,

And dream my dream, and hold it true For though my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell.

-Alfred Tennyson.

Highland Mary.

YE banks, and braes, and streams around

The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,

Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;

And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;

But oh! fell death's untimely frost,

1 hat nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance

That dwelt on me sae kindly! And moldering now in silent dust

The heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

-Robert Burns

« PrejšnjaNaprej »