Poems (Barker)/To Bertie C

by Alice J. Green Barker

To Bertie C.

I lay dreaming in the shadows,
 Heeding not the flit of time,
Pondering o'er this little story,
 I will tell it you in rhyme.
Years ago, dear little Bertie,
 In a city bright and fair,
Dwelt a pure and lovely maiden,
 Blue her eyes and gold her hair.

All about her pathway, Bertie,
 Grew the sweetest flowers that bloom;
Oh! her life was glad and happy
 With their beauty and perfume.
Not a shadow crossed her pathway,
 Not a sorrow lingered there,
To her heart so pure and guileless
 Came no trace of pain or care.

Listen now, and I will tell you
 All the secret of her joy:
She was loved, and in her spirit
 Was the answer, Bertie boy.
I would tell you of this lover,
 I would ask a pen of flame,
That in glad, immortal letters
 I could write his hallowed name.

He was noblest of the noble,
 He was truest of the true;
With ambitions fire undaunted
 Still he kept the cross in view.
Time swept on, and brought its changes
 To each pure unsullied life,
And she bore a name more sacred
 'Twas the precious name of—wife.

Hearts more true were ne're united,
 Love more deep earth cannot know,
And the years were touched with sunshine,
 All devoid of care and woe.
Listen, Bertie, let me tell you
 How o'erflowed their cup of joy,
When the angels came one morning
 With a little baby boy.

And they laid the winsome treasure.
 Close up to the mother's breast,
Whispering, "If her load be heavy,
 Thou shalt be her joy and rest."
How they loved him, Bertie darling,
 How they loved that little child,
Saying, "we will ever shield him,
 If life's sea is rough and wild."

And their hearts were glad and happy,
 Ne'er were gladder ones, I know;
But there came a shadow, Bertie,
 Creeping to them, still and slow.
Now my heart is aching sadly
 And I fain would close my eyes,
Shutting out the painful picture,
 Which before them quickly rise.

O, I see that noble husband
 Sinking slowly day by day:
Death with hollow voice is calling,
 Soon his life will fade away.
Come up nearer to me, Bertie,
 Let me take your little hand,
While I tell you of a woman
 Pure, unselfish, noble, grand.

While I tell of hope that brightened,
 Brightened all too soon to fade,
Tell of watching, waiting, praying,
 Looking but to God for aid,
O, the hours of weary watching,
 O, the courage and the might,
While that sweet heart-broken woman
 Journeyed through Egyptian night.

Ne'er on bloody field of carnage
 Was such bravery displayed,
As each hour of grief demanded,
 Grief that must not be betrayed.
Came the shadow near, and nearer,
 Darker grew the thickening gloom,
When the roses bloomed in summer,
 Swept their fragrance round his tomb.

O, how dark the night of sorrow;
 O, how stern the hand of fate;
Lonely child, heart-broken mother,
 In a home so desolate.
But a hope springs up within her,
 With a promise of new joy
For the father's face and figure
 Dwells within her darling boy.

And his step grows firm and manly,
 Graver seems the little face;
As his young heart learns the lesson,
 He must take his father's place.
And I sometimes think, dear Bertie,
 When his hand in her's is prest,
That he heard that angel whisper,
 "Thou shalt be her joy and rest."