more, Where the waves of the Sound wash the New England shore, Walked Maurice; and beside him, young hope, with the tip Of his fair rosy fingers pressed hard on his lip, Urging silence. If Mabel Montrose saw the boy With the pursed prudent mouth and the eyes full of joy She said nothing. Grave, dignified (Ah, but so fair!), There was naught in her modest and womanly air To feed or encourage such hope. Yet love grew Like an air plant, with only the night and the dew To sustain it; while Mabel rejoiced in the friend, Who, in spite of himself, had come back to Bay Bend, Yielding all to her wishes. Such people, alone, Who gracefully gave up their plans for her own, Were congenial to Mabel.  Though looking the sweet, Fragile creature, with feminine virtues replete, Her nature was stubborn. Beneath that fair brow Lurked an obstinate purpose to make others bow To herself in small matters. She fully believed She was right, always right; and her friends were deceived, As a rule, into thinking the same; for her eyes Held a look of such innocent grief and surprise When her will was opposed, that one felt her misused, And retired from the field of dispute, self-accused. 

 The days, like glad children, went hurrying out From the schoolhouse of time; months pursued the same route More sedately; a year, then two years, passed away, Yet hope, unimpaired, in the lover's heart lay, As a gem in the bed of a river might lie, Unharmed and unmoved while its waters ran by. His toil for the poor still continued, but not With that fervor of zeal which a dominant thought Lends to labor. Fair love gilded dreams filled his mind, While the corners were left for his suffering kind. He was sorry for sorrow; but love made him glad, And nothing in life now seemed hopeless or sad. His tete-a-tete visits with Mabel were rare; She ordered her life with such prudence and care Lest her white name be soiled by the gossips. And yet, Though his heart, like a steed checked too closely, would fret Sometimes at these creed-imposed fetters, he felt Keen delight in her nearness; in knowing she dwelt Within view of his high turret window. Each day Which gave him a glimpse of her, love laid away As a poem in life's precious folio. Night Held her face like a picture, dream-framed for his sight. So he fed on the crumbs from love's table, the while Fate sat looking on with a cynical smile. 

 

 IX. 

 SONGS FROM THE TURRET. 

 I. 

 Prev. P 48/69 next