Poems (Cary)/Grand-Dame and Child
GRAND-DAME AND CHILD.
The maple's limbs of yellow flowers Made spots of sunshine here and thereIn the bleak woods; a merry pair Of blue-birds, which the April-showersHad softly called, were come that day;Another week would bring the May, And all the meadow-grass would shineWith strawberries; and all the treesWhisper of coming blooms, and bees Work busy, making golden wine.
The white-haired grand-dame, faint and sick, Sits fretful in her chair of oak; The clock is nearly on the strokeOf all the day's best hour, and quick The dreamy house will glimmer bright—No candle needed any more, For Miriam's smile is so like light,The moths fly with her in the door. The lilies carvéd in her chair The grand-dame counts, but cannot tellIf they be three or seven; the pair Of merry blue-birds, singing well,She does not hear;. nor can she see The moonshine, cold and pure, and bright, Walk like an angel clothed in white,The path where Miriam should be.
Almost she hears the little feet Patter along the path of sands;Her eyes are making pictures sweet, And every breeze her cheek that fans,Half cheats her to believe, I wis,It is her pretty grandchild's kiss.
The dainty hood, her fancy too Sees hanging on the cabin wall,And from her modest eyes of blue, Fair Miriam putting back the fallOf her brown hair, and laughing wild—Her darling merry-hearted child, Then with a step as light and low As any wood-birds in the snow,She goes about her household cares.
"The saints will surely count for prayers The duties love doth sweeten so,"Says the pleased grand-dame; but alas!No feet are pattering on the grass,No hood is hanging on the wall—It was a foolish dreaming, all.
The morning-glories winding up The rustic pillars of the shed,Open their dark bells, cup by cup, To the June's rainy clouds; the bedOf rosemary and meadow-sweet Which Miriam kept with so much care, Is run to weeds, and everywhereAcross the paths her busy feet Wore smooth and hard, the grass has grown— And still the grand-dame sits alone,Counting the lilies in her chair— Her ancient chair of carved oak— And fretful, listening for the strokeOf the old clock, and for the pair Of blue-birds that have long been still; Saying, as o'er the neighboring hillThe shadows gather thick and dumb—"'T is time that Miriam were come."
And now the spiders cease to weave, And from between the corn's green stems Drawing after her her scarlet hems,Dew-dappled, the brown-vested Eve Slow to his purple pillows drops; His tired team now the plowman stops;In the dim woods the axe is still,And sober, winding round the hill, The cows come home. "Come, pretty one,I'm watching for you at the door,"Calls the old grand-dame o'er and o'er, "'Tis time the working all were done."
And kindly neighbors come and go, But gently piteous; none have said,"Your pretty grandchild sleepeth so We cannot wake her;" but insteadPiling the cushions in her chair, Carved in many a quaint design Of leaves and lilies, nice and fine,They tell her she must not despair To meet her pretty child again—To see her wear forever more, A smile of brighter love than whenThe moths flew with her in the door.