330 LOIS B. ADAMS. [1840-50. From morning till night I'll swing my hoe, Hoe, hoe, hoe — row after row, Knowing each step that I take through the corn, Is bringing me nearer to Isabel Lorn ! " glad was he then that the growing corn Shielded his steps from his mother's scorn ; And glad that his father's miser hand Had barred all help from his fertile land. 8o safely he kept his forest-flower, And dreamed of her beauty hour by hour, As steadily still, hill after hill, Through the field so broad he swung his hoe, Hoe, hoe, hoe — row after row, Knowing each step through the growing corn. Was bringing him nearer to Isabel Lorn. But months passed on, and the ripened corn Was laid on the ground one autumn morn, While under the sod in the church-yard bless'd Are two low graves where the aged rest. The father has left broad lands and gold, And the mother her wealth of silks untold. And sweet Isabel — v/hy need I tell What she said to Ralph, when without his hoe He sought her side ? It was not " No ! " That made her the mistress, one summer morn. Of the stately home by the field of corn. THE PICTURE BRIDE. One day a lonely artist spread His canvas by his cottage door: "I'll paint me such a bride," he said, "As never mortal had before. "All artless in her matchless charms. Her face her guileless love shall speak ; No pride shall fill me with alarms, No anger flush her maiden cheek. " Pure as the snow-flake in the air Her intellectual brow shall be ; In ringlets bright her auburn hair Shall wave o'er neck and bosom free. "And heaven's own purest blue shall bless The depths of those soft-beaming eyes, Where all of woman's tenderness In half unconscious slumber lies. " Bright as the blush of early morn The rose-tints o'er her cheek shall play; But not like morning's blush be born. To fade with each departing day. "Long as I live, my Picture Bride Shall stand beside my cottage door, A purer, truer, more beloved Tlian ever mortal had before. "Forever on her lips shall be That smile of angel loveliness, That speaks to me and only me, A welcome to her loved caress." And day by day the Picture Bride In all her blooming beauty stood, The idol of the artist's pride, Beside his cottage in the wood. When morning oped her dewy eye. He knelt in worship half divine. And when the noonday sun was high. Again he bent betbre the shrine. And when his weary toils were o'er. And night o'ersjiread the landscape sweet, He sought his beauteous bride once more, To pay his homage at her feet. Full oft those glowing lips he pressed, Bright lips, that only met his own, Full oft those dewy eyes he blessed, That beamed on him and him alone.
