Rose Hartwick Thorpe: Verses about Sun

Fair Margaret! beautiful Margaret!
In the hush of the twilight cold.
The sun on a dazzling throne has set
In a cloud of amber and gold;
And the great green waves, with their white caps wet,
O'er the beach to her feet have rolled.

She waits for the lover whose kiss one day
Was pressed on her quivering lips, -
The lover who went from her side away
In one of those swift-sailing ships,
O'er the waves that bright in the sunlight lay
'Neath the glow of its finger-tips.

O the sea! the stormy, tempestuous sea!
The sea with its roar and its gloom, -
The treacherous sea, how it shouts in glee
O'er each jewel-decked coral tomb!
The glorious, grand, resplendent sea,
In the light of a golden noon!

Whenever the shadowy twilight creeps
O'er the earth, with her fair feet wet, -
When the stars come out and the great world sleeps,
When the murmuring waters fret
On the sandy shore, - then she waits and weeps,
Lonely, sorrowful Margaret!

There she sits alone mid the gleaming sands,
By the shadowy ivied wall,
While over the clasp of her trembling hands
Like a shower the tear-drops fall;
And the sea brings murmurs of far-off lands,
And the blue sky bends over all.

'O bring back my lover once!' she cries,
'As I sit by the sea alone;
O pitiful Father in Paradise!
Stoop down from thy glorious throne,
And grant to the light of my waiting eyes
One glimpse of his face, - only one!'

Now the sea rolls in with a mighty swell, -
Will it bring a curse or a crown?
For, alas! no echoing murmurs tell
Of the home-bound ship that went down
Mid the hidden reefs, with never a knell
From the slumbering harbor town.

All about her the water moans and raves,
She is drenched with the falling sleet;
Something lies dark in the arms of the waves
Where the sky and the waters meet:
Lo! a victim snatched from the coral graves
Is cast on the beach at her feet!

O beautiful Margaret, pale and fair!
By the sea no longer alone;
For two faces lie in the starlight there,
With features like chiselled stone.
And the seaweed drifts from his tangled hair
To the sunny locks of her own.

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.

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair―
He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, 'Curfew must not ring tonight!'


'Sexton,' Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold ―
'I've a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset;' and her lips grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, 'Curfew must not ring tonight!'


'Bessie,' calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),
'Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring tonight!'


Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
'At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die.'
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, faintly spoken. 'Curfew must not ring tonight!'


She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro;
As she climbed the slimy ladder, on which fell no ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell;
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; 'tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


Out she swung - far out. The city seemed a speck of light below ―
There twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro.
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell.
Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,
Stilled her frightened heart's wild throbbing: 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.


O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face, still haggard, with the anguish it had worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
'Go! your lover lives,' said Cromwell. 'Curfew shall not ring tonight!'


Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,
All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,
Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;
Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.
In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,
Whispered, 'Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring tonight.'