Magnolia Leaves

Night and a starless sky, Ship on wild billows tost, With tattered sails and opening seams. And deck bestrewn with falling beams. Swift plunging to her doom.

Red lightnings round her flash, Loud thunders crash and roar, And the noble vessel mounts the crest Of the reeking waves, then sinks to rest Mid carnival of woe.

The Petrel soars aloft, Wailing her hymn of death, And the dirgelike sounds pierce the blackened sky, While the crew send forth one anguished cry, Sinking to lowest depth.

Some ships go out to sea That never more return, Souls that from heaven in infancy come, Tarnished and ruined by sin may become, Like the Dove to the Ark they never return, But sink as ship to doom.

With hands all reddened and sore, With back and shoulders low bent, She stands all day, and part of the night Till her strength is well-nigh spent. With her rub⁠—rub⁠—rub, And her wash, rinse, shake, Till the muscles start and the spirit sinks, And the bones begin to ache.

At morn when the sunbeams scatter In rays so golden and bright, She yearns for the hour of even, She longs for the restful night. Still she rubs⁠—rubs⁠—rubs, With the energy born of want, For the larder’s empty and must be filled⁠— The fuel’s growing scant.

As long as the heart is blithesome, Will her spirit bear her up, And kindness and love imparteth a zest To sweeten hard life’s bitter cup. But to toil⁠—toil⁠—toil, From the grey of the morn till eve, Is an ordeal so drear for a human to bear, Which the rich can hardly conceive.

In a far off hamlet near the sea Where billows oft, in days of storm, and Nights of darkness rush reckless to the shore; Where tall, white cliffs like watchmen keep A life-long vigil; Oft when the morning Sunbeams gild their lofty peaks they seem Like massive crystal vases adorned with Rays of gold.

Hard-by those snowy cliffs, Shielded safe from cutting winds and icy Blasts, stood an humble, unpretending cot, Its low, thatched roof of matted moss Glimmered, when the morning sun brightened Up the valley, and cast its rays aslant through The tiny windows ignorant of glass. Its well- Scrubbed floor shone like polished wood; And all around an air of quiet, peace and Love, prevailed.

Within that cosy nest, there Dwelt three loving hearts, Nay, four, for on the Very morn when Christmas bells were Ringing o’er the land, When children of the rich And children of the poor alike, were talking Of the Christ-child, and his day, Unto them a Child was given, And this lovely babe, blest Christmas Gift⁠—was richly prized. E’en now she knew her Father’s voice, and leaped with joy at his return.

But ah! the cry of war, broke o’er the land. Cruel War, that rends the households and the hearts; That makes fond bosoms bleed; and waters all The sod with tears, Salty, agonizing tears, which, When they dry, leave furrows never healing.⁠— Sorrows, never ceasing.

The mandate came.⁠— Marco must go. What! leave the dear ones all Alone. The gray-haired sire sunning himself Without the cottage door? The little wife in Blooming womanhood? The cherub who in Human form had come to bless his home?

Years went by. The war, the Cruel war was at an end. And Peace with Flowing mantle had overspread the land;⁠— With anxious heart, but willing feet, the Soldier started for his dear old cabin nestled So snugly in the valley. Would he find them all? The dear old sire with his silvered hair⁠—Perchance He had lain him down to sleep, beside the wife Who had left him in his prime.

But she, the dear Uranne, she was there, no doubt of that. A stronger, Healthier lass ne’er spun the dance. Then the baby, our baby. How she must have Grown. Wonder if she remembers me, her own dear Sire? Who oft would soothe and rock to sleep. O yes; Uranne has taught her to love and lisp My name.

When the proud vessel dropped her Anchor in the Bay, no prouder man, nor Hopeful, than was Marco. Lightly he sprang Ashore. He looked to right, to left, no sign of His loved ones cheered his gaze. Uranne, he cried, What! no welcome for Marco? No outstretched arms to fold me in love’s embrace? He tottered to the cot all overgrown with Weeds and trailing vines. O! stars above write On hardest stone, Desolate, forlorn⁠—alone.

Unconsciously he moved along the lane That led to the old church-yard. The little Tuneful bell that had pealed so joyously On his marriage eve, was silent now. He saw no one, nor questions asked. But Slowly crept to where three mounds were Raised all side by side. He closely scanned Them all, when lo! upon the longest grave, A beauteous tuft of blue Forget-Me-Nots⁠— Aha! he cried, my bright, my blue Forget-Me-Nots!

Magnolia! “Pale city of the dead,” Adown thy gravelled walks I tread, Thy marble pillars looming high, Thy polished shafts around me lie. With soft, mild rays, the winter sun Thy tortuous pathways doth illume, The weeping-willow droops its head, To crown the “City of the Dead.”

On every side death’s tracks I see, His footsteps grim encompass me, The high-born here, the lowly there, The proud man there, the humble here. The rich has left his golden hoard, No more he sits at festive board, He could not bribe relentless death, With all his garnered stores of wealth.

Here lies a maiden spotless fair, Whose claim on life for many a year Seemed sure. But the grim Reaper smiled, And bending, claimed her for his child. So lovingly they made her bed. And tenderly these garlands spread, Bright emblems of a stricken flower, Now blooming in a sunnier bower.