This low-walled home is dear to her, she has come
to it to-day
From the lordly groves of her palace home
afar,
But not to stay; there’s a light
on her brow like the light
of
a star,
And her eyes are looking beyond the earth, far, far
away.
She was born in this cottage home, the sweetest rosebud
of spring,
And grew with its flowers, the fairest
blossom of all,
Till her friends ambitiously said she
would grace
the
kingliest hall,
And flattery breathed on her ear its passionate whispering.
A man of riches and taste saw the maiden’s face,
And thought her beauty would grace his
stately southern home,
So he took her there, with pictures from
France, and
statues
from Rome,
And marvellous works of art from many an ancient place.
He decked her in costly attire, and showed her beauty
with pride
As for sympathy and love, what need of
these had she?
He had placed her amidst the choicest
treasures of land and sea,
His marble Hebe never complained, and why should his
bride?
He had polished the beautiful unknown gem and set
it in gold,
He had given her his name and his wealth,
what more
could
she ask?
When all other gifts were hers, it were
surely an easy task
Her pleading spirit’s restless wings to fold.
The wise world called her blest, so heart be still,
She had beauty, and splendor, and youth,
and a husband
calmly
kind,
And crowds of flattering friends her lofty
mansion lined,
And dark-browed slaves awaited her queenly will.
Why should she dream of the past, of the days of old,
Of her childhood home, and more oft of
the home of the dead,
Of the grave where she went alone the
night before she was wed,
And knelt, with her pure cheek pressed to the marble
cold?
It was not sin, she said, that those eyes of darkest
blue
Haunted her dreams more wildly from day
to day,
Since they looked on Heaven now, and she
was so far away,
She could love the dead and still be to the living
true.
She could think of him, the one who loved her best,
Of him who true had been if all the world
deceived,
Who felt all grief with her when she was
grieved,
And shared each joy that thrilled her girlish breast.
It was not sin that she heard that voice, gentle and
deep,
And the echo of a name—it was
cut in marble now—
So it was not sin, she said, as she breathed
it low
In the midnight hour when all but she were asleep.
But she wearier grew of pride and pomp, like a home
sick child
she
pined,
And paler grew her cheek, as worn with
a wearing pain,
She said the fresh free country air would
seem so sweet again,
So she went to her childhood home, as a pilgrim goes
to a shrine,