Poems (Sherwin)/The sisters
THE SISTERS.
Poor Jane Howard! She was but sixteen when she lost her only remaining parent, a widow, who had during life enjoyed a small annuity.
Jane had an only sister, some three years younger than herself, and their dying mother had enjoined her to look well to Marrion, for she was a gentle child, beautiful, but delicately framed.
They had no friends left who were able and willing to assist them.
All their earthly property was disposed of in order to bury their parent, and a kind neighbour offered a temporary shelter, which they accepted thankfully, and thought them- selves happy when they were engaged to sew for a clothing establishment in a neighbouring town.
Thither they repaired and hired a lodging; one room, which contained a couch that served them for a bed, four chairs, one table, and a few other trifling articles.
Here they commenced that life of sedentary labour which soon, happily for them, terminated in the grave.
Their joint exertions, strenuously exercised, could not procure them more than five shillings in a week; and often much less than that was all they could earn for labouring fourteen or fifteen hours each day during the six.
I knew them well, and my heart has often bled to witness their daily struggles with those ruthless destroyers, incessant toil and grinding poverty. Yet, both had sylphlike forms, exquisitely moulded; beautiful features, with complexions clear, and cheeks of a soft light vermilion. They had been well educated in childhood, and a natural refinement seemed to regulate their every movement.
It was charming to witness the affection of these two sisters. Not a murmur escaped them, and they appeared to have no fear or anxiety hut for each other. But it was plain earth was not destined long to he the resting place of either.
Marrion sickened—drooped—and died!
Who can picture the distress of the bereaved one? Not they who, when one loved being departs, have others left to live for, and share that spark of high divinity in our nature, the heart's affection! They only can imagine who have one—one only dear friend, and lose that one.
Poor Jane! In the first burst of grief, which lasted for a day and a night, nothing could induce her to leave the corpse. A thousand times she kissed the marble cheek,—beautiful even in death; but no word escaped her.
On the second morning she appeared to rouse, and a look of calm resignation was on her countenance. She knew that her sister's remains must be buried, and felt that she possessed not the means of procuring even a shroud.
Truth, however painful, must be told. Jane was advised by a neighbouring old woman, who had herself lost all in life but her natural kindness of heart, to make application to the parish; and she offered to accompany her to the relieving officer.
Quietly she acquiesced, grateful to her friendly adviser. In three days her case was laid before the proper authorities, and on the fourth a coffin was brought by four poor men, who were instructed to perform all the necessary preliminaries for interment, and then to convey the body to the parish burial ground.
The solitary Jane insisted on accompanying her sister's remains to the grave. "No," said she, "Marrion shall not go unmourned. In life she loved me dearly, and I will not leave her until I have seen her decently laid in her last resting place." And she followed, accompanied by the kind old neighbour. But it was too much for her. At the close of the sad ceremony she fainted, and was borne senseless to her forlorn home.
I saw her often during the three succeeding days, and on the evening of the last she appeared more cheerful than usual. Her cheek was flushed and her eye was unusually bright.
She spoke of her sister calmly, and told me how happy they had often been after leaving church on Sundays, when walking in the green fields; and that Marrion would sometimes wonder if heaven were like green fields, all covered with flowers, and flooded with sunshine; and observe how happy we should be when there. "I dreamt of her last night," said she, " and she appeared to be standing in the midst of a beautiful garden, surrounded with angelic forms—who beckoned me towards them. The happy expression of her countenance is before me still, but in my effort to join her I awoke."
That night Jane bade me adieu very affectionately. She then lay down, and I left her on her little couch in a gentle sleep. The next morning she was a corpse. ***** One grave encloses the remains of the two sisters. No stone marks the spot, but a little green mound is still visible in the parish burial-ground of D———.
Her sleep—how like the sleep of death.
Fatigued, at length she sinks to rest,
Her weary head drooped on her breast.
On this our bed, though not of down:
Whilst I my midnight watch will keep,
Well pleased thou canst not see me weep.
Sweet sister Marrion, gentle child.
Alone within this wide world left,
Of every other friend bereft,
Thou'rt all on earth now left to me,
And I am all, dear child, to thee.
My sick heart aches for thee alone.
I grieve to see thy form so fair,
For want of exercise and air,
Drooping and languishing each day,
Sickening with premature decay;
And though I toil with all my power,
From early morn to midnight hour,
With trembling hands and fevered head,
I scarce can give thee daily bread.
Of earthly joys which poets sing,—
The bliss of life's first opening spring,
Thou ne'er hast known. Thy joyless days
Have ne'er been cheered by childish plays;
And cares which childhood should not know
Have charged thy earliest hours with woe,
Which steals away thy life's first bloom,
And soon will bring thee to the tomb.
How many bitter tears I shed
Beside thy hard, uneasy bed!
And when death's hand has eased thy pain,
No other wish shall I retain,
Than that my call may soon be given,
To join thy guiltless soul in heaven.
