Poems (Truesdell)/A Tale without a Name
A TALE WITHOUT A NAME.
"Marriage is a matter of more worth, Than to be dealt in by attorneyship." Shakspeare—Henry IV.
Morn's earliest rays had tinged the tree-tops "With their golden hue; when a fond mother Sought the couch whereon her child reposed. "Awake, my Alice! awake!" she cried, "To happiness: it is thy bridal morn! The sun comes out with gorgeous splendor,As though it sought to make more glad this happy day. Dost mark how proudly even now its crimson Glories rest on yonder hillock fair, where Stands thy future home? When eve shall come, thou Wilt be mistress of the proudest mansion In this proud city—the envy of the London world. Slaves at thy bidding then will Come; broad lands and manors fair be thine; and More than this, the deep, abiding love of One, whom many sought, but sought in vain, To win. Dost hear me not, my daughter?"
Gently The maiden started from her sleep, with such A look of radiant happiness upon Her face, the mother's conscience ceased a Moment to reproach. But, ah! 'twas but A transient gleam—the meteor's ray. With Her soft hand she put aside the curls that Clustered round her brow of snowy whiteness, And in a tone of deep and touching sadness Said—"Why didst thou wake me, mother? I in dreams had wandered far away, to my Sweet childhood's home. I stood beside the fount, Whose limpid waters gushed and bubbled At my feet; and by my side was Herbert Gray, My childhood's playmate—the dear companion Of my later youth; and hand in hand we Roved together 'mid the sweets that scent My native vale: and he did gaze so fondly In my face, and clasp my hand so tenderly In his, I feel the pressure of it yet. But, ah! 'twas but a dream!" And tears, those Swift, unbidden messengers of grief, dimmed Her soft pleading eyes.
The mother's brow grew dark. "What! tears upon thy bridal morn? they ill Become thee: thou shouldst be a woman now, and Lay aside all childish things." "Oh! chide me Not, my mother; but let me still weep on: To-morrow, though my heart should break, I must Not shed a tear."
Morn on her rosy wings went by; The noon's hot, scorching rays had sunk into The quiet shades of eve, when the bride-maidens Sought the gentle bride. But when they came unto Her room, they marveled much to find she Was not there: they sought, but sought in vain; they Called, but Echo only answered back The call. The father's brow grew dark with grief; The mother wept aloud; and the stern bridegroom Muttered something of woman's faithlessness,—When, lo! a note was brought. 'Twas signed by Herbert Gray; and read—"We two have grown together, With such fond and earnest faith,—have loved each other With such holy love, to sunder us is death. . . . ." And when he spoke of Alice, his sweet bride, He said—"The primrose better loves the shade, The violet seeks a sheltered dell,And there unfolds its sweets." One trembling line Was writ by Alice' hand: and when the parents Read it, ambition died within their hearts, And they acknowledged there, before their guests, Limits to parental law; for though a parent May restrain his child, he must not barter Her for gold.