My Cousin's Portrait

Just where the early sunbeams fall,
And waken me at dawn,
To hear the lark sing praise because
Another day is born,
There hangs a little portrait, and none know how 'tis stored,
I simply tell my guests it is 'my cousin, gone abroad.'

He lived upon the breezy hills,
And I in London town;
My face was fair, and thin and pale,
And his was fresh and brown,
But oh! what happy times we had, when we were girl and boy,
And had not got a ghost of care to haunt us in our joy!

My earliest thoughts of him are linked
With pleasant flowers and trees,
With gloveless hands, and locks unbound
And freshened in the breeze.
And often since in country towns, I've felt mine eyes grow dim,
Because each homely sight and sound brought memories of him.

When last I saw his country home,
Its hearth was desolate;
And the last country walk we took
Led through the churchyard gate:
And as we faced the sunset there—the new-made grave was nigh
I knew in all the wide green earth his nearest friend was I.

When next we met, we met to part,
Upon the crowded pier;
And through the drizzling mist I saw
The gaunt, black shipping near:
And as he kissed my tear-stained cheek in all the wind and rain,
I could not—did not—dare to hope I'd see his face again.

Yet keenest sorrows very soon
To happiest memories turn;
As sweetest smiles break calmly forth
From lips we fancy stern;
For then how bitterly I wept, to think that he must roam,
And now I'm almost glad he went, for now he's coming home!

A Message From The Sea

The stormy afternoon was past,
And in the dim grey sky,
Between great hoary clouds, the sun
Looked out with lurid eye:
And we, two strangers from the town, the sea breeze yearning for,
Walked down between the fishers' cots, and went toward the shore.

The beach was still enough, but yet
The tempest left its track,
And almost fearfully we passed
Torn nets and heaps of wrack:
There is a mystic mockery about the wind and storm,
They make such rude and simple things so like a human form!

My sister's face was strangely pale,
A thrill was in her tone,
Her brown eyes looked like those who watch
To have some mystery shown:
I only thought, 'Hope wears the heart,—ay, even more than Fear,
And Bessie waits for one she loves,—I would that he were here!'

The lurid sun sank in the sea,
But left a glare behind;
And the slow tide those treasures left
Which loiterers love to find;
My sister turned aside to pick what seemed a glittering shell;
And from some church I could not see, there tolled a solemn knell.

I turned and saw that Bessie knelt
Upon the crunching sand;
'O God, Thy help! ' she said, and kissed
That something in her hand,
And then she held it out to me—a grievous sight to bear—
A locket I had seen before, filled with her own bright hair.

The waves had left it at her feet,
To bid her hope no more;
He whom she waited, watched for her
Upon a calmer shore:
And very soon she went to him: our youngest and our best
Sleeps sweetly by the moaning sea, with its message on her breast.

The Midnight Lamp

From window, curtainless and high,
There gleamed a sickly, yellow light;
On other casements darkness fell,
But that shone all the dreary night.
And every morning, when the street
Woke to the carman's cheery shout,
Or the quick tread of hurrying feet,
The little yellow light went out.

Beside it sat a haggard man,
Yet 'twas not time had made him so;
Rather, each year that o'er him ran
Had left him a decade of woe.
He lived a month in every night
A month of anguish and despair;
Whilst something on his brow did write
A look that youth should never wear.

He often left the dismal house,
And walked away, with downcast eyes,
As though he feared to see a curse
Writ on the sunny summer skies.
Yet, stern and grave as he appeared,
The little children in the street
Smiled in his face, and never feared
To sport and gambol at his feet.
Yet when those cherub looks were raised,
Half shyly, flashing fun and play,
Scarcely upon their smiles he gazed,
But sighed, and turned his face away;
As though he feared lest childhood's eye
Should chance to penetrate the veil
Of a dark story, and descry
The dismal secret of his tale.

But on one gusty winter eve,
When wind was high, and snow was deep,
Just such a night as makes one grieve
For those who have no home to keep
I drew aside my curtain's fold,
Half shuddering in the frosty air,
The stars were shining, clear and cold,
But that dim lamp—it was not there;
And fears within my spirit stirred,
I felt my brow grow cold and white,
As though a ghostly voice I heard
Upon the silence of the night.
I sought my bed—sleep closed mine eyes
I woke in fear—my brow was damp
I know not what I dreamed, but I
Had dreamed about that little lamp!

I rose, and from my window saw
The house of that mysterious light,
Dull was the morning, dim and raw,
Soiling the snow so pure last night.
People were gathered in the street,
In hushed, mysterious tones they spoke;
Then watchmen came, with heavy feet,
And, passing swiftly mid the folk,
Entered the house, and in its gloom
They found they needs must have a light.
I saw them pass from room to room
To that which once was lit by night,
And long and long they lingered there
(But what they found I could not say):
Then out they came with looks of care,
And sent the people all away.

What had they found?—they found him dead,
That lonely watcher in the night,
Lying alone upon his bed,
And near him his extinguished light.
But though his face was dark and lean,
It wore no more its look of care,
A smile was o'er its sorrow seen,
The cold hand held a lock of hair
A single lock of golden hair
Long, silken, curled, as women's are;
Its owner—was she false as fair?
Or was she dead, or gone afar?
We can but guess that shining tress
Was some sweet relic of his past
A comfort or a bitterness
That soothed, or stung him to the last.

And that was all that man could learn,
But yet it gave me sudden pain
To know that lamp would never burn
On that high window-sill again;
And from my memory ne'er will go
The tarnished hearse, the rusty pall,
The gaping crowd, and all the woe
Of that unfollowed funeral.