Various - Auld Lang Syne стр 4.

Gently, no pushing; theres room to sit
   All three without grumbling,
One in front, two behind, well you fit,
   And mamma to hold you from tumbling.
   Rock, rock, old rocking chair,
   Youll last us a long time with care,
      And still without balking
         Of us four any one,
      From rocking and talking
         That is what we call fun.

Curtains drawn, and no candles lit,
   Great red caves in the fire,
This is the time for us four to sit
   Rocking and talking all till we tire.
   Rock, rock, old rocking chair,
   How the fire-light glows up there,
      Red on the white ceiling;
   The shadows every one
      Might be giants, reeling
   On their great heads, for fun.

Shall we call this a boat out at sea,
   We, four sailors rowing?
Can you fancy it well?  As for me
   I feel the salt wind blowing.
Up, up and down, lazy boat,
On the top of a wave we float,
   Down we go with a rush;
      Far off I see a strand
   Glimmer; our boat well push
      Ashore on Fairy-land.

The fairy people come running
   To meet us down on the sand,
Each holding out toward us the very thing
   Weve long wished for, held in his hand.
Up, up again; one wave more
Holds us back from the fairy shore;
   Lets pull all together,
      Then with it, up well climb,
   To the always fine weather
      That makes up fairy time.

Come to us through the dark, children,
   Hark! the fairy people call,
But a step between us and you, children,
   And in Fairy-land room for us all.
Climb the main and you will be
Landed safe in gay Fairie,
   Sporting, feasting, both night and noon,
      No pause in fairy pleasures;
   Silver ships that sail to the moon,
      Magic toys for treasures.

Ah! the tide sweeps us out of our track,
   The glimmer dies in the fire,
Theres no climbing the wave that holds back
   Just the things that we all most desire!
Never mind, rock, rocking-chair;
While theres room for us four there,
   To sit by fire-light swinging,
      Till some one open the door,
   Birds in their own nest singing
      Aint happier than we four.

Who cares to think of autumn leaves in spring?
         When the birds sing,
And buds are new, and every tree is seen
Veild in a mist of tender gradual green;
   And every bole and bough
Makes ready for the soft low-brooding wings
Of nested ones to settle there and prove
         How sweet is love;
Alas, who then will notice or avow
         Such bygone things?

For, hath not spring the promise of the year?
         Is she not always dear
To those who can look forward and forget?
   Her woods do nurse the violet;
With cowslips fair her fragrant fields are set;
         And freckled butterflies
         Gleam in her gleaming skies;
And life looks larger, as each lengthening day
Withdraws the shadow, and drinks up the tear:
Youth shall be youth for ever; and the gay
High-hearted summer with her pomps is near.

Yes; but the soul that meditates and grieves,
      And guards a precious past,
And feels that neither joy nor loveliness can last
To her, the fervid flutter of our Spring
Is like the warmth of that barbarian hall
To the scared bird, whose wet and wearied wing
Shot through it once, and came not back at all.
Poor shrunken soul! she knows her fate too well;
         Too surely she can tell
That each most delicate toy her fancy made,
And she herself, and what she prized and knew,
         And all her loved ones too,
Shall soon lie low, forgotten and decayd,
         Like autumn leaves.

I SEE the small birds fluttering on the trees,
And know the sweet notes they are softly singing;
I see the green leaves trembling in the breeze,
And know the rustling that such breeze is bringing;
I see the waters rippling as they flow,
And know the soothing murmur of their noise;
I see the children in the fire-lights glow,
Laughing and playing with their varied toys;
I see the signs of merriment and mirth;
I see the music of Gods lovely earth;
I see the earnest talk of friend with friend,
And wish my earnest thoughts with theirs could blend;
But oh! to my deaf ears there comes no sound,
I live a life of silence most profound.

Dear heart! what a little time it is, since Francis and I used to walk
From church in the still June evenings together, busy with loving talk;
And now he is gone far away over seas, to some strange foreign country,  and I
Shall never rise from my bed any more, till the day when I come to die.

I tried not to think of him during the prayers; but when his dear voice I heard
I faild to take part in the hymns, for my heart flutterd up to my throat like a bird;
And scarcely a word of the sermon I caught.  I doubt twas a grievous sin;
But twas only one poor little hour in the week that I had to be happy in.

When the blessing was given, and we left the dim aisles for the light of the evening star,
Though I durst not lift up my eyes from the ground, yet I knew that he was not far;
And I hurried on, though I fain would have stayed, till I heard his footstep draw near,
And love rising up in my breast like a flame, cast out every shadow of fear.

Ah me! twas a pleasant pathway home, a pleasant pathway and sweet,
Ankle deep through the purple clover, breast high mid the blossoming wheat:
I can hear the landrails call through the dew, and the night-jars tremulous thrill,
And the nightingale pouring her passionate song from the hawthorn under the hill.

One day, when we came to the wicket gate, neath the elms, where we used to part,
His voice began to falter and break as he told me I had his heart;
And I whisperd that mine was his; we knew what we felt long ago:
Six weeks are as long as a lifetime almost when you love each other so.

So we put up the banns, and were man and wife in the sweet fading time of the year,
And till Christmas was over and past I knew neither sorrow nor fear.
It seems like a dream already, a sweet dream vanished and gone;
So hurried and brief while passing away, so long to look back upon.

I had only had him three months, and the world lay frozen and dead,
When the summons came which we feared and hoped, and he saild over sea for our bread.
Ah well! it is fine to be wealthy and grand, and never to need to part;
But tis better to love and be poor, than be rich with an empty heart.

Though I thought twould have killd me to lose him at first, yet was he not going for me?
So I hid all the grief in my breast which I knew it would pain him to see.
Hed be back by the autumn, he said; and since his last passionate kiss
He has scarcely been out of my thoughts, day or night, for a moment, from that day to this.

When I wrote to him how I thought it would be, and he answered so full of love;
Ah! there was no angel happier than I, in all the bright chorus above;
And I seemd to be lonely no longer, the days slippd so swiftly away;
And the March winds died, and the sweet April showers gave place to the blossoms of May.

And then came the sad summer eve, when I sat with the little frock in the sun,
And Annie ran in with the news of the ship.  Ah, well! may His will be done!
They said that all hands were lost, and I swoond away like a stone,
And another life came ere I knew he was safe, and that mine was over and gone.

So now I lie helpless here, and shall never rise up again,
I grow weaker and weaker, day by day, till my weakness itself is a pain.
Every morning the creeping dawn, every evening I see from my bed
The orange-gold fade into lifeless grey, and the old evening star overhead.

Sometimes in the twilight dim, or the awful birth of the day,
As I lie, not asleep nor awake, my soul seems to flutter away,
And I seem to be floating beyond the stars, till I thrill with an exquisite pain,
And the feeble touch of a tiny hand recalls me to life again.

And the doctor says she will live.  Ah! tis hard to leave her alone,
And to think she will never know in the world the love of the mother whos gone!
He will tell her of me, by and by,  she will shed me a childish tear;
But if I should stoop to her bed in the night, she would start with a horrible fear.

She will grow into girlhood, I trust, and will bask in the light of love,
And I, if I see her at all, shall only look on from above
I shall see her, and cannot help, though she fall into evil and woe.
Ah! how can the angels find heart to rejoice when they think of their loved ones below?

And Francis, he too, will forget me, and will go on the journey of life,
And I hope, though I dare not think of it yet, will take him another wife.
It will scarcely be Annie, I think, though she liked him in days gone by;
Was that why she came?  but what thoughts are these for one who is going to die?

I hope he will come ere I go, though I feel no longer the thirst
For the sound of his voice, and the light of his eye, that I used to feel at first:
Tis not that I love him less, but death dries, like a whirlwind of fire,
The tender springs of innocent love, and the torrents of strong desire.

And I know we shall meet again.  I have done many things that are wrong,
But, surely, the Lord of Life and of Love, cannot bear to be angry long.
I am only a girl of eighteen, and have had no teacher but love;
And, it may be, the sorrow and pain I have known will be counted for me, above;

For I doubt if the minister knows all the depths of the goodness of God,
When he says He is jealous of earthly love, and bids me bow down neath the rod.
He is learnèd and wise, I know, but, somehow, to dying eyes
God opens the secret doors of the shrine that are closed to the learnèd and wise.

So now I am ready to go, for I know He will do what is best,
Though he call me away while the sun is on high, like a child sent early to rest.
I should like to see Francis look on our child, though the longing is over and past
But what is that footstep upon the stair?  Oh! my darling at last! at last!