― 22 ―

The Old Wife and the New.

He sat beneath the curling vines
That round the gay verandah twined,
His forehead seamed with sorrow's lines,
An old man with a weary mind.

His young wife, with a rosy face
And brown arms, tinted by the sun
Went flitting all about the place—
Master and mistress both in one.

What caused that old man's look of care?
Was she not blithe and fair to see?
What blacker than her raven hair—
What darker than her eyes might be?

Were her curved lips not ripe and red,
And white as pearls her flashing teeth?
Who e'er saw such a handsome head
Ringed round with such a raven wreath?

Had she no heart whose tendrils he
Could thrill, or one that nothing melts?
(Such hearts there are), or, could it be,
She had a heart—for someone else?

Who knows? The old man bent his head
The sunlight on his gray hair shone,
His thoughts were with a woman dead
And buried years and years agone:

  ― 23 ―
The good old wife who took her stand
Beside him at the altar-side,
And walked with him, hand clasped in hand,
Through joy and sorrow till she died.

Then she was fair as heart's desire,
And gay, and supple-limbed, in sooth,
And in his veins there leaped like fire
The hot red blood of lusty youth.

She stood by him in shine and shade,
And, when hard-beaten, at his best,
She took him like a child and laid
His aching head upon her breast.

She helped him make a little home
Where once were gum-trees gaunt and stark,
And bloodwoods waved green-feathered foam—
Working from dawn of day to dark,

Till that dark forest formed a frame
For vineyards that the gods might bless,
And what was savage once became
A Tadmor in the wilderness.

And how at their first vintage-time
She laughed and sang—you see such shapes
On vases of the Grecian prime—
And danced a reel upon the grapes.

And ever, as the years went on,
She kept all things with thrifty hand,
Till never shone the sun upon
A fairer homestead in the land.

Then children came—ah me! ah me!
Sad blessings that a mother craves!
That old man from his seat could see
The shadows playing o'er their graves.

  ― 24 ―
And then he closed her eyes at last,
Her gentle, useful, peaceful life
Was over—garnered with the past,
God rest thee gently, Good Old Wife!

His young wife has a rosy face,
And laughs, with reddest lips apart,
But cannot fill the empty place
Within that old man's lonely heart.

His young wife has a rosy face,
And brown arms, tinted by the sun,
Goes flitting all about the place,
Master and mistress both in one.

But though she sings, or though she sighs,
He sees her not—he sees instead
A gray-haired Shade with gentle eyes—
The good old wife, long dead, long dead.

He sits beneath the curling vines,
Through which the merry sunrays dart,
His forehead seamed with Sorrow's lines,
An old man with a broken heart.