Poems (McDonald)/Keepsakes

by Mary Noel McDonald

KEEPSAKES.

"I have been looking over a box of keepsakes. Each little trinket had a voice which spoke to me of the Past."

Private Letter.

A ring—a simple band of pearl—
  And yet the image fair
Of a true-hearted, merry girl,
  With step as free as air,
And eye all bright as evening's star,
  These faded pearls recall—
The earliest playmate of my love,
  And fairest of them all:
Around a pure, unclouded brow,
Her silken tresses gaily flow,
And her sweet tones of youthful glee
Come ringing as they did to me
Long years ago, ere Care or Time
Had stolen the freshness of her prime.

We stood together 'neath the stars,—
  It was a night of June—
And listened to the far-off voice
  Of a waterfall in tune;
And we spoke of old, familiar things
  That happened long before—
Of dear companions scattered wide,
  Whom we should meet no more;
And she said, lest I should e'er forget
  The friend of Life's young day—
The holly walk where first we met,
  So shy, and then so gay—
The pleasant hours by field and stream
  That we had passed together,
When the world seemed just like fairy land,
  And Life like Summer weather—
This ring should on my finger be
A talisman of memory,
To waken thoughts of love and her
When she might be a wanderer
Far, fro' from all we looked on then;
  Away from those long prized so dearly,
Whom she might never see again,
  Though she would love them, Oh sincerely!
Then from her hand the gift she drew,
  And placed the glittering pledge on mine—
Hush! 'twas but Fancy's whispered tone:
  Sweet friend, it is not thine!
Thou art beyond the surging sea,
  A thousand leagues away,
But this band of pearl hath called thee back
  Unto my heart to-day,
The same fair thing of light and glee
That lives within my memory.

A braid of hair: the hand which gave
  This golden tress, had nought beside;
Hers were no jewels of the wave,
  No radiant gems, no high-horn pride;
Unskilled in art, unknown to fame,
  Of lowly birth and humble name—
  A simple cottage maid;
Yet well I loved the gentle child!
Like some fair floweret of the wild
Untrained, yet fragrant still, she smiled,
  In native grace arrayed.

I long had known sweet Amy Lee,
As blithe as wild-bird, or as bee,
As meek as are the lilies white,
Which hide their petals from the light
  Beneath their leaves of green;
As gentle as the young gazelle—
So fragile, yet beloved so well—
She seemed a thing that might not dwell
  Where storms had ever been.
Twelve summers only had she known—
  How swift their course was run!
So gaily, gladly had they flown,
  We deemed them scarce begun.
Then came the blight upon our flower:
  Consumption's fatal breath
Had doomed our rose-bud of an hour
  To bend its head in death:
And well she knew her fate must be
To bid farewell to stream and tree,
To mossy bank, to sylvan dell,
To woodpaths that she loved so well,
To bird and bud, to earth and sky,
Then turn from all their charms—and die.
'Twas sad to part; yet well she knew
Of that bright world beyond her view—
Of those unfading flowers, that blow
Where pure, untroubled waters flow:
And she had gazed, with Faith's keen eye,
Till doubt was changed to ecstacy,
And longed to seek those regions fair,
And find eternal spring-time there.

One morn I sought her cottage-door,
The old green woodbine, clambering o'er,
Checkered the sunshine on the floor,
  With sweets perfumed the air:
I sat beside the dying child,
And watched how tranquilly she smiled—
  How calm her features were:
Then from her head she bade me take,
And keep it for poor Amy's sake,
  This tress of golden hair:
That when long years had rolled o'er me,
And she was sleeping peacefully,
Its shining threads perhaps might tell
Of one who loved me passing well.
She died upon that summer morn—
  I marked her fleeting breath,
And caught her last faint sigh, and saw
  Her features fixed in death!
And I have kept the braid of hair,
In memory of one so fair:
Its glossy folds still speak to me
The gentle name of Amy Lee!

A broken chain—its severed links
  Are where? in some strange land they lie;
But he who holds them hath, roethinks,
  A day-dream when they meet his eye:
He turns in thought, half musing then,
  Unto one bright, autumnal even,
When moonbeams lit our native glen,
  And stars were thickly set in heaven,
And we together stood beneath
  The old home porch, and, half in jest,
He played the lover, kneeling low,
  And a deep passion then confessed:
And when I smiled, and said I knew
  His ardent love would yield to time,
He broke this golden chain in two,
  And asked, when in a foreign clime
'Twas his to linger, sad and lone,
That I would sometimes gaze upon
Its glittering circles, and believe
His was no heart that could deceive.
We parted, as warm friends would part,
  And he went o'er the tossing main;
Another won that faithful heart,
  And he forgot the broken chain:
And now he may not think of me,
Save its bright remnant he should see.

A leaf—a seal—a faded flower—
Each have a different tale,
And each recall some pleasant hour,
By streamlet, wood or vale,
This bracelet clasped a lovely arm;
This heart of topaz hath a charm
  Of other days for me;
Some fair companion's merry glance,
My partner in the mazy dance,
  In this old broach I see;
And this small volume's sacred lore
Recalls a counsellor of yore,
Whose faithful warnings, heard no more,
  Yet live in memory.

Oh, ye have voices for mine ear,
Ye silent things! none else can hear;
Each little offering hath for me
A sweet, a separate history:
A tale of Love, or Joy, or Grief—
An hour of gladness, bright and brief;
And those long dead, or far away,
Have lived and smiled for me to-day!