His chair is placed; the old man tips
  The pitcher, and brings his choicest fruit;
Benjie basks in the blaze, and sips,
  And tells his story, and joints his flute: 
O, sweet the tunes, the talk, the laughter! 
  They fill the hour with a glowing tide;
But sweeter the still, deep moments after,
  When she is alone by Benjie’s side.

But once with angry words they part: 
  O, then the weary, weary days! 
Ever with restless, wretched heart,
  Plying her task, she turns to gaze
Far up the road; and early and late
  She harks for a footstep at the door,
And starts at the gust that swings the gate,
  And prays for Benjie, who comes no more.

Her fault?  O Benjie, and could you steel
  Your thoughts towards one who loved you so?—­
Solace she seeks in the whirling wheel,
  In duty and love that lighten woe;
Striving with labor, not in vain,
  To drive away the dull day’s dreariness,—­
Blessing the toil that blunts the pain
  Of a deeper grief in the body’s weariness.

Proud and petted and spoiled was she: 
  A word, and all her life is changed! 
His wavering love too easily
  In the great, gay city grows estranged: 
One year:  she sits in the old church pew;
  A rustle, a murmur,—­O Dorothy! hide
Your face and shut from your soul the view—­
  ’Tis Benjie leading a white-veiled bride!

Now father and mother have long been dead,
  And the bride sleeps under a churchyard stone,
And a bent old man with a grizzled head
  Walks up the long dim aisle alone. 
Years blur to a mist; and Dorothy
  Sits doubting betwixt the ghost she seems,
And the phantom of youth, more real than she,
  That meets her there in that haunt of dreams.

Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter,
  Sought by many a youthful adorer,
Life, like a new-risen dawn on the water,
  Shining an endless vista before her! 
Old Maid Dorothy, wrinkled and gray,
  Groping under the farm-house eaves,—­
And life was a brief November day
  That sets on a world of withered leaves!

Yet faithfulness in the humblest part
  Is better at last than proud success,
And patience and love in a chastened heart
  Are pearls more precious than happiness;
And in that morning when she shall wake
  To the spring-time freshness of youth again,
All trouble will seem but a flying flake,
  And lifelong sorrow a breath on the pane.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

THE NUN AND HARP.

What memory fired her pallid face,
  What passion stirred her blood,
What tide of sorrow and desire
  Poured its forgotten flood
Upon a heart that ceased to beat,
Long since, with thought that life was sweet,
When nights were rich with vernal dusk,
  And the rose burst its bud?