A RICH MAN'S REVERIE.

The years go by, but they little seem

Like those within our dream;

The years that stood in such luring guise,

Beckoning us into Paradise,

To jailers turn as time goes by

Guarding that fair land, By-and-By,

Where we thought to blissfully rest,

The sound of whose forests’ balmy leaves

Swaying to dream winds strangely sweet,

We heard in our bed‘ neath the cottage eaves,

Whose towers we saw in the western skies

When with eager eyes and tremulous lip,

We watched the silent, silver ship

Of the crescent moon, sailing out and away

O'er the land we would reach some day, some day.

But years have flown, and our weary feet

Have never reached that Isle of the Blest;

But care we have felt, and an aching breast,

A lifelong struggle, grief, unrest,

That had no part in our boyish plans;

And yet I have gold, and houses, and lands,

And ladened vessels a white-winged fleet,

That fly at my bidding across the sea;

And hats are doffed by willing hands

As I tread the village street;

But wealth and fame are not to me

What I thought that they would be.

I turn from it all to wander back

With Memory down the dusty track

Of the years that lie between,

To the farm-house old and brown,

Shaded with poplars dusky green,

I pause at its gate, not a bearded man,

But a boy with earnest eyes.

I stand at the gate and look around

At the fresh, fair world that before me lies.

The misty mountain-top aglow

With love of the sun, and the pleasant ground

Asleep at its feet, with sunny dreams

Of milk-white flowers in its heart, and clear

The tall church-spire in the distance gleams

Pointing up to the tranquil sky's

Blue roof that seems so near.

And up from the woods the morning breeze

Comes freighted with all the rich perfume

That from myriad spicy cups distils,

Loitering along o'er the locust-trees.

Scattering down the plum-trees’ bloom

In flakes of crimson snow —

Down on the gold of the daffodils

That border the path below.

And the silver thread of the rivulet

Tangled and knotted with fern and sedge.

And the mill-pond like a diamond set

In the streamlet's emerald edge;

And over the stream on the gradual hill,

Its headstones glimmering palely white,

Is the graveyard quiet and still.

I wade through its grasses rank and deep,

Past slanting marbles mossy and dim,

Carven with lines from some old hymn,

To one where my mother used to lean

On Sunday noons and weep.

That tall white shape I looked upon

With a mysterious dread,

Linking unto the senseless stone

The image of the dead —

The father I never had seen;

I remember on dark nights of storm,

When our parlor was bright and warm,

I would turn away from its glowing light,

And look far out in the churchyard dim,

And with infinite pity think of him

Shut out alone in the dismal night.

And the ruined mill by the waterfall,

I see again its crumbling wall,

And I hear the water's song.

It all comes back to me —

Its song comes back to me,

Floating out like a spirit's call

The drowsy air along;

Blending forever with my name

Wonderful prophecies, dreamy talk,

Of future paths when I should walk

Crowned with manhood, and honor, and fame.

I shut my eyes and the rich perfume

Of the tropical lily fills the room

From its censer of frosted snow;

But it seems to float to me through the night

From those apple-blossoms red and white

That starred the orchard's fragrant gloom;

Those old boughs hanging low,

Where my sister's swing swayed to and fro

Through the scented aisles of the air;

While her merry voice and her laugh rung out

Like a bird's, to answer my brother's shout,

As he shook the boughs o'er her curly head,

Till the blossoms fell in a rosy rain

On her neck and her shining hair.

Oh, little Belle!

Oh, little sister, I loved so well;

It seems to me almost as if she died

In that lost time so gay and fair,

And was buried in childhood's sunny plain;

And she who walks the street to-day,

Or in gilded carriage sweeps through the town

Staring her humbler sisters down,

With her jewels gleaming like lucent flame,

Proud of her grandeur and fine array,

Is only a stranger, who bears her name.

And the little boy who played with me,

Hunting birds’ - nests in sheltered nooks,

Trudging at nightfall after the cows,

Exploring the barn-loft, fording the brooks,

Ending, in school-time, puzzled brows

Over the same small lesson books;

Who knelt by my side in the twilight dim,

Praying “the Lord our souls to keep,”

Then on the same pillow fell asleep,

Hushed by our mother's evening hymn;

Whose heart and mine kept such perfect time,

Such loving cadence, such tender rhyme,

Blent in child grief, and perfected in glee —

We meet on the street and we clasp the hand,

And our names on charitable papers stand

Side by side, and we go and bow

Our two gray heads with prayer and vow,

In the same grand church, and hasty word

Of anger, has never our bosoms stirred.

Yet a whole wide world is between us now;

How broad and deep does the gulf appear

Between the hearts that were so near!

I have pleasure grounds and mansions grand,

Low-voiced servants come at my call,

From Senate my name sounds over the land

In “ayes” and “nays” so solemnly read;

They call me “Honorable,” “General,” and all,

But to-night I am only Charley again,

I am Charley, and want to lay my head

On my mother's heart and rest,

With her soft hand pressed upon my brow

Curing its weary pain.

But never, nevermore will it be,

For mould and marble rises now

Between my head and that loving breast;

And death has a cruel power to part —

Forever gone and lost to me

That true and tender heart.

Oh, mother, I've never found love like thine,

Never have eyes looked into mine

With such proud love, such perfect trust.

Never have hands been so true and kind,

To lead me into the path of right —

Hands so gentle, and soft, and white,

That on my head like a blessing lay,

And led me a child and guided my youth;

To-night‘ tis a dreary thought, in truth,

That those gentle hands are dust.

That I may be blamed, and you not be sad,

That I may be praised, and you not be glad;

‘ Tis a dreary thought to your boy to-night,

That over your sweet smile, over your brow,

The clay-cold turf is pressing now,

That never again as the twilight falls

You will welcome your boy to the old brown walls

Of the homestead far away.

The homestead is ruined — gone to decay,

But we read of a house not made with hands,

Whose firm foundation forever stands;

And there is a twilight soft and sweet.

Will she not stand with outstretched hands

My homesick eyes to meet —

To welcome her boy as in days before,

To home, and to rest, forevermore?

But the years come and the years go,

And they lay on her grave as they silently pass,

Red summer buds and wreaths of snow,

And springing and fading grass.

And far away in an English town,

In the secluded, tranquil shade

Of an old Cathedral quaint and brown,

Another grave is made —

A small grave, yet so high

It shadowed all the world to me,

And darkened earth and sky.

But only for a time; it passed,

The unreasoning agony,

Like a cloud that drops its rain;

And light shone into our hearts at last.

And patience born of pain.

And now like a breath of healing balm

The sweet thought comes to me,

That my child has reached the Isle of Calm,

Over the silent sea —

That my pure little Blanche is safe in truth,

Safe in immortal beauty and youth.

When she left us in the twilight gloom,

When she left her empty nest,

And the aching hearts below;

Full well, full well I know,

What tender-eyed angel bent

Down for my brown-eyed little bird,

From the shining battlement.

I know with what fond caressing,

And loving smile and word,

And look of tender blessing,

She took her to her breast,

And led her into some quiet room,

In the mansions of the blest.

Oh, mother, beloved, oh, child so dear,

Not by a wish, would I lure you here.

My son is a bright, brave boy, with a grace

Of beauty caught from his mother's face,

And his mother and he in truth are dear,

Full tenderly, and fond, and near

My heart is bound to my wife and child;

But the summer of life is not its May,

And dreams and hopes that our youth beguiled,

Are but pallid forms of clay.

There's the boy's first love and passionate dream,

A face like a morning star, a gleam

Of hair the hue of a robin's wing —

Brown hair aglow with a golden sheen,

And eyes the sweetest that ever were seen.

Mary, we have been parted long,

You were proud, and we both were wrong,

But‘ tis over and past, no living gleam

Can come again to the dear, dead dream.

It is dead, so let it lie,

But nothing, nothing can ever be

Like that old dream to you or to me.

I think we shall know, shall know at last,

All that was strange in all the past,

Shall one day know, and shall haply see

That the sorrows and ills, that with tears and sighs,

We vainly endeavored to flee,

Were angels who, veiled in sorrow's guise

Came to us only to bless.

Maybe we shall kneel and kiss their feet,

With grateful tears, when we shall meet

Their unveiled faces, pure and sweet,

Their eyes’ deep tenderness.

We shall know, perchance, had these angels come

Like mendicants unto a kingly gate

When we sat in joy's royal state,

We had barred them from our home.

But when in our doorway one appears

Clothed in the purple of sorrow's power,

He will enter in, no prayers or tears

Avail us in that hour.

So what we call our pains and losses

We may not always count aright,

The rough bars of our heavy crosses

May change to living light.