348 ALICE GARY. [1840-50. In the beard of Allen Archer Twisted then his fingers white, As he said, "My gentle Jessie, You must not be sad to-night ; You must not be sad, my Jessie — You are over kind and good. And I fain would make you happy, Very happy — if I could ! " Oft he kissed her cheek and forehead. Called her darling oft, but said. Never, that he loved her fondly. Or that ever they should wed ; But that he was grieved that shadows Should have chilled so dear a heart; That the time foretold so often Then was come — and they must part! Shook her bosom then with passion, Hot her forehead burned with pain. But her lips said only, "Allen, Will you ever come again ? " And he answered, lightly dallying With her tresses all the while. Life had not a star to guide him Like the beauty of her smile ; And that when the corn was ripened And the vintage harvest press'd. She would see him home returning To the Valley of the West. When the moon had vailed her splendor. And went lessening down the blue. And along the eastern hill-tops Burned the morning in the dew. They had parted — each one feeling That their lives had separate ends; They had parted — neither happy — Less than lovers — more than friends. For as Jessie mused in silence. She remembered that he said. Never, that he loved her fondly. Or that ever they should wed. 'Twas full many a nameless meaning ]My poor words can never say. Felt without the need of utterance, That had won her heart away. the days were weary ! weary ! And the eves were dull and long, With the cricket's chirp of sorrow. And the owlet's mournful song. But in slumber oft she started In the still and lonesome nights, Hearing but the traveler's footstep Hurrying toward the village lights. So, moaned by the dreary winter — All her household tasks fulfilled — Till beneath the last year's rafters Came the swallows back to build. Meadow-pinks, like flakes of crimson, Over all the valleys lay. And again were oxen plowing Up and down the hills all day. Thus the dim days dawned and faded To the maid, forsaken, lorn. Till the freshening breeze of summer Shook the tassels of the corn. Ever now within her chamber All night long the lamp-light shines, But no white hand from her casement Pushes back the heavy vines. On her cheek a fire was feeding. And her hand transparent grew — Ah, the faithless Allen Archer ! More than she had dreamed was true. No complaint was ever uttered, Only to herself she sighed, — As she read of wretched poets Who had pined of love and died. Once she crushed the sudden crying From her trembling lips away. When they said the vintage harvest Had been gathered in that day. Often, when they kissed her, smiled she, Saying that it soothed her pain. And that they must not be saddened — She would soon be well again ! Thus nor hoping nor yet fearing, Meekly bore she all her pain, Till the red leaves of the autumn Withered from the woods again;
