Then he entreated, that if he should die,
  She would not cease her guardian mission mild. 
Awhile, as undecided, lingered nigh,
  Beside the pillow of the sleeping child,
Severed one wandering lock of wavy hair,
Took horse that night, and left her unaware.

And it was long before he came again—­
  So long that Margaret was woman grown;
And oft she wished for his return in vain,
  Calling him softly in an undertone;
Repeating words that he had said the while,
And striving to recall his look and smile.

If she had known—­oh, if she could have known—­
  The toils, the hardships of those absent years—­
How bitter thraldom forced the unwilling groan—­
  How slavery wrung out subduing tears,
Not calmly had she passed her hours away,
Chiding half pettishly the long delay.

But she was spared.  She knew no sense of harm,
  While the red flames ascended from the deck;
Saw not the pirate band the crew disarm,
  Mourned not the floating spars, the smoking wreck. 
She did not dream, and there was none to tell,
That fetters bound the hands she loved so well.

Sweet Margaret—­withdrawn from human view,
  She spent long hours beneath the cedar shade,
The stately trees that in the garden grew,
  And, overtwined, a towering shelter made;
She mused among the flowers, and birds, and bees,
In winding walks, and bowering canopies;

Or wandered slowly through the ancient rooms,
  Where oriel windows shed their rainbow gleams;
And tapestried hangings, wrought in Flemish looms,
  Displayed the story of King Pharaoh’s dreams;
And, come at noon because the well was deep,
Beautiful Rachel leading down her sheep.

At last she reached the bloom of womanhood,
  After five summers spent in growing fair;
Her face betokened all things dear and good,
  The light of somewhat yet to come was there
Asleep, and waiting for the opening day,
When childish thoughts, like flowers, would drift away.

O! we are far too happy while they last;
  We have our good things first, and they cost naught;
Then the new splendor comes unfathomed, vast,
  A costly trouble, ay, a sumptuous thought,
And will not wait, and cannot be possessed,
Though infinite yearnings fold it to the breast.

And time, that seemed so long, is fleeting by,
  And life is more than life; love more than love;
We have not found the whole—­and we must die—­
  And still the unclasped glory floats above. 
The inmost and the utmost faint from sight,
For ever secret in their veil of light.

Be not too hasty in your flow, you rhymes,
  For Margaret is in her garden bower;
Delay to ring, you soft cathedral chimes,
  And tell not out too soon the noontide hour: 
For one draws nearer to your ancient town,
On the green mount down settled like a crown.