THE birds no more in dooryard trees are singing,
The purple swallows all have left the eaves,
And 'thwart the sky the broken clouds are winging,
Shading the land-slopes, bright with harvest-sheaves.
Old Hannah waits her sailor-boy returning,
His fair young brow to-day she hopes to bless;
But sees the red sun on the hill-tops burning,
The flying cloud, the wild, cold gloominess
Of Bay Chaleur.
The silver crown has touched her forehead lightly
Since last his hand was laid upon her hair;
The golden crown will touch her brow more brightly
Ere he again shall print his kisses there.
The night comes on, the village sinks in slumber,
The rounded moon illumes the water's rim;
Each evening hour she hears the old clock number,
But brings the evening no return of him
To Bay Chaleur.
She heard low murmurs in the sandy reaches,
And knew the sea no longer was at rest;
The black clouds scudded o'er the level beaches,
And barred the moonlight on the ocean's breast.
The night wore on, and grew the shadows longer;
Far in the distance of the silvered seas
Tides lapped the rocks, and blew the night-wind stronger,
Bending the pines and stripping bare the trees
Round Bay Chaleur.
Then Alice came; on Hannah's breast reclining,
She heard the leaves swift whistling in the breeze,
And, through the lattice, saw the moon declining
In the deep shadows of the rainy seas.
The fire burned warm,— upon the hearth was sleeping
The faithful dog that used his steps to follow.
""T is almost midnight," whispered Alice, weeping,
While blew the winds more drearily and hollow
O'er Bay Chaleur.
No organ stands beneath a bust of Pallas,
No painted Marius to the ruin clings,
No Ganymede, borne up from airy Hellas,
Looks through the darkness 'neath the eagle's wings.
But the sweet pictures from the shadowed ceiling
Reflect the firelight near old Hannah's chair,
One a fair girl, with features full of feeling,
And one a boy, a fisher, young and fair,
Of Bay Chaleur.
The boy returns with humble presents laden,
For on the morrow is his wedding morn;
To the old church he hopes to lead the maiden
Whose head now rests his mother's breast upon.
Now Hannah droops her cheek, the maiden presses, →
"He will return when come the morning hours,
And he will greet thee with his fond caresses,
And thou shalt meet him diademed with flowers."
Sweet Bay Chaleur!
Gray was the morning, but a light more tender
Parted at last the storm-cloud's lingering glooms;
The sun looked forth in mellowness and splendor,
Drying the leaves amid the gentian blooms.
And wrecks came drifting to the sandy reaches,
As inward rolled the tide with sullen roar;
The fishers wandered o'er the sea-washed beaches,
And gathered fragments as they reached the shore
Of Bay Chaleur.
Then Alice, with the village maidens roaming
Upon the beaches where the breakers swirl,
Espied a fragment 'mid the waters foaming,
And found a casket overlaid with pearl.
It was a treasure. "Happy he who claimed it,"
A maiden said, "'t is worthy of a bride."
Another maid "the ocean's dowry" named it;
But gently Alice, weeping, turned aside,
Sad Bay Chaleur ! —
And went to Hannah with the new-found treasure,
And stood again beside the old arm-chair;
The maids stood round her, radiant with pleasure,
And playful wove the gentians in her hair.
Then Hannah said, her feelings ill dissembling.
"Some sailor-lad this treasure once possessed;
And now, perhaps," she added, pale and trembling,
"His form lies sleeping 'neath the ocean's breast,
In Bay Chaleur."
Now on her knee the opened box she places,—
Her trembling hand falls helpless on her breast;
Into her face look up two pictured faces,
The faces that her sailor-boy loved best.
One picture bears the written words, "My mother,"
Old Hannah drops her wrinkled cheek in pain;
"Alice," sweet name, is writ beneath the other
Old Hannah's tears fall over it like rain.
Dark Bay Chaleur !
The spring will come, the purple swallows bringing,
The green leaves glitter where the gold leaves fell;
But nevermore the time of flowers and singing
Will hope revive in her poor heart to dwell.
Life ne'er had brought to her so dark a chalice,
But from her lips escaped no bitter moan;
They, 'mid the gentians, made the grave of Alice,
And Hannah lives in her old cot alone,
The Memphis Appeal, a short time ago, told the story of a fallen woman of that place, Mollie Cooke by name, who, owning a gilded palace of sin, turned it into a hospital for the yellow-fever sufferers, and with her hands nursed the sick and dying back to life again, until at last, wearied and exhausted with the long watching, she too fell a prey to the fever. I am toid that a marble shaft, the gift of the city, marks her last resting-place in the cemetery there; and it seems but a fitting tribute to one who gave all she had her life to redeem the errors of the past.
THE yellow death came stealing
Up from the river's edge;
Up from the dark, dark morass,
With its tangled fringe of sedge;
Up from the misty bayous,
On the south wind's tainted breath,
Till the skies grew dark at Memphis
With the shadowy wings of death.
The air grew dense and silent,
The wild bird ceased its song,
And strong men cried in anguish,
"How long, O God, how long?"
But the skies gave back no answer,
Death's pitiless scythe still swung,
And the harvest the reaper gathered
Was a harvest of old and young.
The babe in the cradle sleeping,
In the flush of morning light,
With a smile of dimpled features,
In a coffin slept at night;
And the man who knelt at evening,
Thanking God for the strength he gave,
Lay down to sleep at dawning
In the cold and narrow grave.
The pavements only echoed
To the wheels of the passing hearse,
As it bore to the silent city
The victims of the curse;
And the voice of the stricken mourners,
Who heard not the rustling wing,
But saw on the sleeper's forehead
The seal of the saffron king.
Then out from the gilded palace
Of sorrow, and sin, and shame,
Clad in the robes of scarlet,
A fallen woman came;
And the song of the noisy revel
Gave place in its stately hall
To a prayer for the sick and dying,
And a woman's soft footfall.
Back from death's dark portal,
From the verge of an unseen land,
Came many a wandering mortal
At the touch of that woman's hand;
Till the fever, wrathful, sullen,
Touched her with his tainted breath,
And asleep, in snowy garment,
She lay in the arms of death.
Oh, girl with the jewelled fingers,
Oh, maid with the laces rare,
Will that woman's grand action
Count less than thy studied prayer?
Have the angels, looking earthward,
A love more tender seen
Than that of this fallen woman, ·
The true new Magdalen?
"NOUGHT to be done," - eh? It was that he said,-
The doctor, as you stopped him at the door?
Nay, never try to smile and shake thy head,
I could ha' told thee just as well afore.
I have n't lived these thirty year to want
Parsons or women telling what is nigh
When the pulse hovers, and the breath is scant,
And all grows dim before the glazing eye.
I felt that something gave, here, at my heart,
In that last tussle down there on the Scar;
Nay, never cry, fond lassie as thou art,
Thou wilt do fine without me- better far.
Thou 'st been a good and patient wife to me
Sin' that spring day, last year, when we were wed;
I never meant so cold and strange to be;
Come, and I'll tell thee. Sit here by my bed.
So, where the sunshine rests upon thy hair,
It shows almost as smooth and bright as hers The girl I wooed in Dunkerque, over there Fie, how the thought the slackening life-blood stirs !
Oh, wild black eyes, so quick to flash and fill!
Oh, rich red lips, so ripe for kiss and vow!
Did not your spell work me enow of ill,
That ye must haunt and vex me even now?
I swore, as we drove out into the gale,
And staggering down mid-channel went the boat, Never at Dunkerque pier to furl my sail,
While I and the old "Lion" kept afloat,
The pier where she and her French lover laughed
At the poor, trusting fool, who had his due;
Quick though his hand flew to his keen knife's haft,
The English fist was yet more quick and true.
She and her beaten sweetheart, do they prate
Yet of her triumph? Let them, an they please.
I shall know nought about it, lying straight
Up on the headland, 'neath the tall fir-trees.
I wish I could ha' been content, my lass,
With thee, and thy blue eyes and quiet ways: Thou hast thy bairn, and as the calm years pass Thou wilt forget thy stormy April days.
Thou 'rt young and bonnie still, my wench. Thou 'It make
A happy wife yet. Choose some quiet chap,
Who 'll love the little 'un for thy sweet sake,
And bear thee to some inland home, mayhap.
We're rough and stern, we on the seaboard bred,
And can't forget, or smooth a rankling wound.
Come close; there 's just one thing left to be said,
Before I'm dumb forever, and under ground.
Last night they watched the life-boat driven back,
The rocket battling vainly with the blast,
While the good bark, amid the roar and wrack,
Drove headlong-struck, and lay there, hard and fast. They neither saw nor heeded, as the flash
Of cold blue fire lit all, above, below,
The French flag flying o'er the whirl and crash,
"Louise, Dunkerque," the letters on her prow.
I saw, plunged, fought, and reached the sinking bark,
The old, hot poison fierce in every vein,
Seized on two sailors, shrieking in the dark,
Bore them to land, and turned to swim again.
Clasping the rigging yet one man I found;
I caught him, struggled on; the beach was near,— "Louise," he gasped, and, 'mid the roar around,
I knew the voice last heard on Dunkerque pier.
The murderer's lust surged to the throbbing heart,
The murderer's cunning loosed the saving hand;
'T was but to let him go; I'd done my part
Praised and avenged! Why, thus 't were well to land.
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