New Poems (Shorter)/The Last Coach
THE LAST COACH
Before her mirror in a pouting mood,
Afraid to weep lest anger should revoke
The picture there, she did impatient brood
Why Fate should treat her worse than other folk.
Her lilac frock her mother's hand caressed,
So fond and helpful in maternal pride,
Here to its place a slipping button pressed,
And there a wayward ribbon softly tied.
"They will not come!" the maid in her despair
Cries out on Fate who serves her now so ill:
"'Tis past the hour, and oh! they do not care,
They have forgot that I am waiting still."
Upon the breeze there comes the sudden beat
Of many hoofs and hum of turning wheels,
The murmur of low voices in the street,
And from afar a church bell faintly peals.
"List!" said the maid, "'tis to my neighbour's gate
Come these proud horses, hear their harness ring.
Perchance her natal feast she holds in state,
And ev'ry guest some precious gift will bring.
"Hark! how they pass, full forty steeds and more,
My neighbour's child is but a maid like me;
Hear how her friends all whisper by her door,
While I forlorn and all neglected be."
"Thy humble coach last in the throng may wait,
Slow to advance while others hold the way;
Perchance but now it passes to our gate,
Let me look forth and seek the strange delay."
The mother rose and to the window went,
With sore embittered heart that this parade
Was not for her dear girl; then slowly bent
There for a moment, silent and dismayed.
Then came her child, in wonder at her mood,
Looked forth and saw, her neighbour's home before,
How two black steeds in mournful harness stood
To draw their coach of sorrow from the door.
"My neighbour's child is but a maid like thee,"
The mother cried, and swiftly heart to heart
They clung, and wept together prayerfully,
Till each sad coach did from their gaze depart.
Then came the last, where merry faces pressed
Upon the glass all laughing to be late;
And beckoning hands all ready to caress—
This humble coach did stop before their gate.