Rose Hartwick Thorpe: Verses about Love

Dear heart of my heart,
Throbbing close to my breast
With fondest and truest pulsation,
List while I repeat
The old story, my sweet,
In the language of love's adoration!
O, life of my life,
All the purest and best
Of my manhood warms in thy presence,
No unworthy part
Of my life or my heart
Has a share in the sweet of love's essence.

Pure soul of my soul,
Is there aught in my past
I would blush for your eyes to discover?
You have reared my throne,
With your fair hands, my own,
You have crowned me your king, your true lover.
O, pure heart and true,
All my future for you
Shall read clear as the spring's crystal water,
Thou lily-white dove,
In the arms of my love
I will shield you, my fair little daughter!

Silk and diamonds and trailing lace,
Haughty carriage and fair proud face;
Out from the palace towering high
Grand and gray 'neath the bending sky,
O'er the lawn with its carpet green,
Lightly stepping, came Austria's Queen,
Flashing gems in the summer's sun,
Tender Mother and Queen in one.

Jewels gleam on her royal hands,
Clasp her arms with their shining bands,
Sparkle and glow where the sunbeams fall;
But the most precious of them all
The nurse is holding with tender care, ―
The royal baby, rosy and fair;
Pressing fond kisses on cheek and brow,
The Queen is only a Mother now.

Down the lawn, in its shadow deep,
A beggar-woman lies asleep.
Hunger, poverty, pain, and care
Darken the face once young and fair;
There by the wayside, seeking rest,
Clasping a babe upon her breast,
Its hungry wail across the green
Stirs the heart of the Mother Queen.

Down on the green grass kneeling low,
Baring her bosom as white as snow,
Laying the child without a name
Where only royal babes have lain,
Feeding it from her own proud breast.
Hungry, starving, ― ah! there's the test, ―
Mother-love spans the chasm wide;
Queen and station must stand aside!

They stand in the shadow which darkly falls
When the Day-god sleeps in his glory,
Shut in by the gloom of the Alamo walls,
Those heroes who live in Fame's story.

Hunters and planters and miners are they,
Giant-builded and iron-hearted,
Unconquered, undaunted, they stand at bay
When their last faint hope has departed.

They are stern of visage and dark of brow,
With a mist in their eyes grown tender,
For memory 'troubles the waters' now
In the heart of each brave defender.

There are dear wife hands reaching out to them,
There are sweet childish voices calling;
Love pierces the hearts of these stalwart men
As they stand in the night-shades falling.

The valley is dark with a living host,
The hills with their presence are teeming,
By their camp-fire's glow like a spectral ghost
Each tent through the shadow is gleaming.

With bare, bowed heads in the hush and the gloom
Mid their sad regrets and their sorrow,
They wait for the flush of the 'day of doom,'
To crimson these walls on the morrow.

Without are curses that burden the night,
Where the enemy fumes and rages,
Within they are kindling fires to light
Texas homes through all coming ages.

O, thou blood-bought shrine of a nation's pride!
Thou altar of love and of glory!
Thou Alamo! swept by a crimson tide,
Live ever in song and in story!

In the deepening shades of twilight
Stood a maiden, young and fair;
Rain-drops gleamed on cheek and forehead,
Rain-drops glistened in her hair.
Where the bridge had stood at morning
Yawned a chasm deep and black;
Faintly came the distant rumbling
From the train far down the track.

Paler grew each marble feature;
Faster came her frightened breath, ―
Charlie kissed her lips at morning, ―
Charlie rushing down to death!
Must she stand and see him perish?
Angry waters answer back;
Louder comes the distant rumbling
From the train far down the track.

At death's door faint hearts grow fearless,
Miracles are sometimes wrought,
Springing from the heart's devotion
In the forming of a thought.
From her waist she tears her apron,
Flings her tangled tresses back,
Working fast and praying ever
For that train far down the track.

See! a lurid spark is kindled,
Right and left she flings the flame,
Turns and speeds with airy fleetness
Downward toward the coming train;
Sees afar the red eye gleaming
Through the shadows dense and black.
Hark! a shriek prolonged and deafening, ―
They have seen her down the track!

Onward comes the train, ― now slower,
But the maiden, where is she?
Flaming torch and flying footsteps,
Fond eyes gaze in vain to see.
With a white face turned to heaven,
All her sunny hair thrown back,
There they found her, one hand lying
Crushed and bleeding on the track.

Eager faces bent above her,
Wet eyes pitied, kind lips blest;
But she saw no face save Charlie's, ―
'T was for him she saved the rest.
Gold they gave her from their bounty;
But her sweet eyes wandered back
To the face whose love will scatter
Roses all along life's track.

Beside St. Joseph's shallow stream,
Whose crystal waters wander,
With drowsy ripple, glint, and gleam,
The bending willows under,

In the resplendent twilight hour,
When western skies were golden,
And solitude held magic power
With superstition olden, ―

Just where the glory flushed the stream,
A shy-faced, sun-brown maiden,
Whose eyes had caught the sunset gleam,
Whose hands were blossom-laden,

Oft lingered there, wide boughs beneath,
The twilight hush around her,
To cull sweet flowers and weave a wreath,
Some day, perchance, to crown her.

Her blossoms were those simple blooms
Which nature sometimes wedges,
In crowded places, mid the glooms
Of shady hazel hedges;

That push their heads above the sod,
In many a rude fence-corner, ―
But still they were the flowers of God,
Fit jewels to adorn her.

Many a rose she wove, betimes,
Mid simple, wayside posies;
For love, so sweet and thorny, finds
Its counterpart in roses.

And still her garland grew and grew,
While summner skies were hazy,
With here and there a pansy blue,
And here and there a daisy,

And here and there a buttercup,
Plucked where the bees were humming;
For all her blossom-world looked up
And smiled to greet her coming.

Once, in a leafy, woodland bower
By girlhood's sunny portal,
She found a sweeter, rarer flower,
That grew from seed immortal.

The great world said: ''Tis wondrous fair!
We do not want your posies;
But give to us this blossom rare,
This regal queen of roses.'

She plucked it forth from bud and leaf
That clustered close about it,
She gave it - but her rosy wreath
Was incomplete without it.

The great world said: ''Tis wondrous fair!
Unlike your wayside posies.
Go thou, and find more blossoms rare, ―
Bring us more queens of roses.'

Her sweet hedgerows are left behind,
Long past is girlhood's portal;
Perchance she never more will find
Flowers grown from seed immortal.

But she has other rosy blooms,
Not quite devoid of graces,
Gleaned here and there among life's glooms
And in its sunny places.

Accept the many for the one, ―
The starry lights, God-given,
Are countless, while a single sun
Illumes the dome of heaven.

Some weary one along life's way,
Dazed by the sun's fierce splendor,
Would miss those starry eyes if they,
More brilliant, were less tender.

Sweet clover-bloom and cowslip fair,
Though field and meadow posies,
May still be loved, and honors share
With Love's bright queen of roses.

A legend of merrie England.

Beside the crystal well she stood,
Fair Margaret, Lowther's daughter,
Clear hazel eyes smiled back at her
Up from the sparkling water.
The sunlight fell on tresses bright,
Tresses half brown, half golden,
While at her feet Lord William knelt,
And told the story olden.

An outlaw border chieftain he,
Of haughty mien and carriage,
With earnest words on bended knee
Besought her hand in marriage.
'My life with thine,' the lady said,
'Can never be united;
To brave Sir John of Muncaster
This hand of mine is plighted.'

'My vengeance,' cried the dark-browed Scot,
'On thee, proud Lowther's daughter!
This lord of thine shall not be safe
From me on land or water!'
Disdainful smiled the lady then:
'Thy threats are unavailing;
While Sir John owns the sacred cup,
Mischance can ne'er assail him.'

''T was Henry Sixth pronounced the charm
(A glass cup was the token),
'In Muncaster good luck shall reign
Till this charmed cup is broken!'
A hundred years the charm hath held
Its power beyond undoing;
Good luck attends Muncaster lords
In battle and in wooing.'

'And this the luck of Muncaster?'
Said the rejected lover.
'The charm hath stood a hundred years,
It shall not stand another.'
Then straight to Carlisle tower he rode:
'My lord,' he cried, 'make ready,
For Douglas comes with Scottish hordes!
Each arm is strong and steady.'

'Prepare to give them battle now,
And mete out justice measure;
Or send some trusted messenger
For thy most valued treasure.'
'Small treasure have I,' Sir John said,
'But one in casket oaken
I fain would save from plundering hand,
Untarnished and unbroken.'

'Go thou and bring the gem I prize;
Thou art no foe or stranger,
Else why hast rode this weary way
To warn me of my danger?'
And ere the bat had winged its flight
Across night's sable curtain
The dark-browed knight of Liddersdale
Had done the message certain.

'Now, by my lady's lips, I swear,
Thy friendship is amazing,'
Cried gay Sir John of Muncaster,
Into the dark face gazing.
'Swear not by lips of her you love, ―
You never more shall press them;
Bright are the locks of Margaret's hair, ―
No more shalt thou caress them.'

Exclaimed the fiery Scot in glee,
'I hold the precious token
That binds good luck to thee and thine, ―
That charmed spell shall be broken.
Behold I dash it to the earth!
In vain thy deepest regret;
Douglas shall win thy palace tower,
And I the lady Marg'ret.'

The traitor fled; Sir John sank down
Beside the casket oaken:
O miracle! the crystal cup
Lay there unharmed, unbroken!
Two thousand soldiers came in time
To stay the Douglas slaughter,
And gay Sir John was married to
Fair Margaret, Lowther's daughter.

Take a seat in the shade here, lady;
It's tiresome, I know, to wait;
But when the train reaches Verona
It's always sure to be late, ―
'Specially when any one's waitin'.
Been gatherin' flowers, I see?
Ah, well! they're better company
Than a rough old fellow like me.

You noticed the graves 'neath the willows,
Down there where the blossoms grew?
Well, yes, there's a story about them,
Almost too strange to be true;
'Tis a stranger, sweeter story
Than was ever written in books;
And God made the endin' so perfect ―
There, now I see by your looks

I will have to tell the story:
Let me see; 'twas eight years ago
One blusterin' night in winter,
When the air was thick with snow;
As the freight came round the curve there
They beheld a man on the track,
Bravin' the storm before him, but
Not heedin' the foe at his back.

And ere a hand could grasp the bell-rope,
Or a finger reach the rod,
One sweep from the cruel snow-plough
Had sent the man's soul to its God!
They laid him out here in the freight-house,
And I stayed with him that night;
He'd one of the pleasantest faces,
So hopeful and young and bright.

There was only a worn-out letter;
I know it by heart ― it said:
'Dear John: Baby May grows finely,
I send you this curl from her head.
We will meet you at Brackenboro'.
The grandfather's sad and lone,
But I read him your kind words, sayin',
When we've a home of our own,'

'He shall sing the songs of old England
Beneath our own willow tree.'
That was all there was of it, lady,
And 't was signed just 'Alice Leigh.'
So we made a grave in the mornin'
And buried the man out there
Alone, unmourned, in a stranger's land,
With only a stranger's prayer.

But when he'd slept in his lonely grave
Out there nigh on to a year,
Ray's freight ran into a washout
By the culvert, away down here;
There were only two passengers that night,
Dead when we found them there, ―
A sweet little Englishwoman,
And a baby with golden hair.

On her breast lay the laughing baby,
With its rosy finger-tips
Still warm, and the fair young mother
With a frozen smile on her lips.
We laid them out here in the freight-house,
I stayed that night with the dead;
I shall never forget the letter
We found in her purse; it said:

'Dear Alice: Praise God I've got here!
I'll soon have a home for you now;
But you must come with the baby
As soon as you can anyhow.
Comfort the grandfather, and tell him
That by and by he shall come,
And sing the songs of old England
'Neath the willows beside our home;'

'For, close by the door of our cottage
I'll set out a willow tree,
For his sake and the sake of old England.
Lovingly yours. John Leigh.'

The tears filled my eyes as I read it;
But I whispered, 'God is just!'
For I knew the true heart yonder ―
Then only a handful of dust ―
Had drawn this sweet little woman
Right here, and God's merciful love
Had taken her from the sorrow
To the glad reunion above!

So, close by the grave of the other
We laid her away to rest, ―
The golden-haired English mother,
With the baby upon her breast.
I planted those trees above them,
For I knew their story, you see;
And I thought their rest would be sweeter
'Neath their own loved willow tree.

Five years rolled along; and, lady,
My story may now seem to you
Like a wonderful piece of fiction;
But I tell you it is true, ―
As true as that God is above us!
One summer day, hot and clear,
As the train rolled into the station
And stopped to change engines here,

Among a company of Mormons
Came a tremblin' white-haired man;
He asked me in waverin' accents,
'Will you tell me, sir, if you can,
Of a place called Brackenboro'?
And how far have I got to go?'
'It's the next station north,' I answered,
'Only thirteen miles below.'

His old face lit up for a moment
With a look of joy complete;
Then he threw up his hands toward Heaven,
And dropped down dead at my feet!
'Old Hugh Leigh is dead!' said a Mormon,
'And sights o' trouble he's be 'n.
Nothin' would do when we started
But that he must come with us then,'

'To find Alice, John, and the baby;
And his heart was well-nigh broke
With waitin' and watchin' in England
For letters they never wrote.'
So we buried him there with the others,
Beneath the willow tree.
'T was God's way of endin' the story ―
More perfect than man's could be.