Poems (Cary)/Jessie Carrol
JESSIE CARROL.
I.
At her window, Jessie Carrol, As the twilight dew distils,Pushes back her heavy tresses, Listening toward the northern hills."I am happy, very happy, None so much as I am blest—None of all the many maidens In the valley of the West,"Softly to herself she whispered; Paused she then again to hearIf the step of Allen Archer, That she waited for, were near."Ah, he knows I love him fondly!— I have never told him so!—Heart of mine, be not so heavy, He will come to night, I know."
Brightly is the full moon filling All the withered woods with light,"He has not forgotten surely— It was later yesternight!" Shadows interlock with shadows— Says the maiden, "Woe is me!"In the blue the eve-star trembles Like a lily in the sea.Yet a good hour later sounded,— But the northern woodlands sway!—Quick a white hand from her casement Thrust the heavy vines away.Like the wings of restless swallows That a moment brush the dew,And again are up and upward, Till we lose them in the blue,Were the thoughts of Jessie Carrol For a moment dim with pain,Then with pleasant waves of sunshine, On the hills of hope again.
"Selfish am I, weak and selfish," Said she, "thus to sit and sigh;Other friends and other pleasures Claim his leisure well as I.Haply, care or bitter sorrow 'Tis that keeps him from my side,Else he surely would have hasted Hither at the twilight tide.Yet sometimes I can but marvel That his lips have never said,When we talked about the future, Then, or then, we shall be wed!—Much I fear me that my nature Cannot measure half his pride, And perchance he would not wed me Though I pined of love and died.To the aims of his ambition I would bring nor wealth nor fame.Well, there is a quiet valley Where we both shall sleep the same!"So. more eves than I can number, Now despairing, and now blest,Watched the gentle Jessie Carrol, From the Valley of the West.
II.
Down along the dismal woodland Blew October's yellow leaves,And the day had waned and faded, To the saddest of all eves.Poison rods of scarlet berries Still were standing here and there,But the clover blooms were faded, And the orchard boughs were bare.From the stubble-fields the cattle Winding homeward, playful, slow,With their slender horns of silver Pushed each other to and fro.Suddenly the hound up-springing From his sheltering kennel, whined,As the voice of Jessie Carrol Backward drifted on the wind—Backward drifted from a pathway Sloping down the upland wild, Where she walked with Allen Archer, Light of spirit as a child!All her young heart wild with rapture And the bliss that made it beat—Not the golden wells of Hybla Held a treasure half so sweet!But as oft the shifting rose-cloud, In the sunset light that lies,Mournful makes us, feeling only How much farther are the skies,—So the mantling of her blushes, And the trembling of her heart,'Neath his steadfast eyes but made her Feel how far they were apart.
"Allan," said she, "I will tell you Of a vision that I had—All the livelong night I dreamed it, And it made me very sad.We were walking slowly seaward, In the twilight—you and I—Through a break of clearest azure Shone the moon—as now—on high;Though I nothing said to vex you, O'er your forehead came a frown,And I strove, but could not soothe you— Something kept my full heart down;When, before us, stood a lady In the moonlight's pearly beam,Very tall and proud and stately— (Allan, this was in my dream!—) Looking down, I thought, upon me, Half in pity, half in scorn,Till my soul grew sick with wishing That I never had been born.'Cover me from wo and madness!' Cried I to the ocean flood,As she locked her milk-white fingers In between us where we stood,—All her flood of midnight tresses Softly gathered from their flow,By her crown of bridal beauty, Paler than the winter snow.Striking then my hands together, O'er the tumult of my breast,—All the beauty waned and faded From the Valley of the West!"
In the beard of Allan Archer Twisted then his fingers white,As he said, "My gentle Jessie, You must not be sad to-night;You must not be sad, my Jessie, You are over kind and good,And I fain would make you happy, Very happy—if I could!"Oft he kissed her cheek and forehead, Called her darling oft, but said,Never, that he loved her fondly, Or that ever they should wed;But that he was grieved that shadows Should have chilled so dear a heart; That the time, foretold so often Then was come—and they must part!Shook her bosom then with passion, Hot her forehead burned with pain,But her lips said only, "Allan, Will you ever come again?"And he answered, lightly dallying With her tresses all the while,Life had not a star to guide him Like the beauty of her smile;And that when the corn was ripened And the vintage harvest prest,She would see him home returning To the Valley of the West.
When the moon had veiled her splendor, And went lessening down the blue,And along the eastern hill-tops Burned the morning in the dew,They had parted—each one feeling That their lives had separate ends;They had parted—neither happy— Less than lovers—more than friends.For as Jessie mused in silence, She remembered that he said,Never, that he loved her fondly, Or that ever they should wed.
'Twas full many a nameless meaning My poor words can never say,Felt without the need of utterance, That had won her heart away. O! the days were weary! weary! And the eves were dull and long,With the cricket's chirp of sorrow, And the owlet's mournful song.Out of slumber oft she started In the still and lonesome nights,Hearing but the traveller's footstep Hurrying toward the village lights.
So, moaned by the dreary winter— All her household tasks fulfilled—Till beneath the last year's rafters Came the swallows back to build.Meadow-pinks, in flakes of crimson, Through the pleasant valleys lay,And again were oxen ploughing Up and down the hills all day.Thus the dim days dawned and faded To the maid, forsaken, lorn,Till the freshening breeze of summer Shook the tassels of the corn.Ever now within her chamber All night long the lamp-light shines,But no white hand from her casement Pushes back the heavy vines.On her cheek a fire was feeding, And her hand transparent grew—Ah, the faithless Allen Archer! More than she had dreamed was true.
No complaint was ever uttered, Only to herself she sighed,— As she read of wretched poets Who had pined of love and died.Once she crushed the sudden crying From her trembling lips away,When they said the vintage harvest Had been gathered in that day.Often, when they kissed her, smiled she, Saying that it soothed her pain,And that they must not be saddened— She would soon be well again!Thus nor hoping nor yet fearing, Meekly bore she all her pain,Till the red leaves of the autumn Withered from the woods again;Till the bird had hushed its singing In the silvery sycamore,And the nest was left unsheltered In the lilac by the door;Saying, still, that she was happy— None so much as she was blest—None of all the many maidens In the valley of the West.
III.
Down the heath and o'er the moorland Blows the wild gust high and higher,Suddenly the maiden pauses Spinning at the cabin fire,And from out her taper fingers Falls away the flaxen thread, As some neighbor entering, whispers, "Jessie Carrol lieth dead."Then, as pressing close her forehead To the window-pane, she seesTwo stout men together digging Underneath the church-yard trees;And she asks in kindest accents, "Was she happy when she died?"Sobbing all the while to see them Void the heavy earth aside;Or, upon their mattocks leaning, Through their fingers numb to blow,For the wintry air is chilly, And the grave-mounds white with snow.And the neighbor answers softly, "Do not, dear one, do not cry;At the break of day she asked us If we thought that she must die;And when I had told her, sadly, That I feared it would be so,Smiled she, saying, 'Twill be weary Digging in the churchyard snow!''Earth,' I said, "was very dreary— That its paths at best were rough;And she whispered, she was ready, That her life was long enough.So she lay serene and silent, Till the wind, that wildly drove,Soothed her from her mortal sorrow, Like the lullaby of love." Thus they talked, while one that loved her Smoothed her tresses dark and long,Wrapped her white shroud down, and simply Wove her sorrow to this song:
IV.
Sweetly sleeps she: pain and passion Burn no longer on her brow—Weary watchers, ye may leave her— She no more will need you now!While the wild spring bloomed and faded, Till the autumn came and passed,Calmly, patiently, she waited— Rest has come to her at last!Never have the blessed angels, As they walked with her apart,Kept pale Sorrow's battling armies Half so softly from her heart.Therefore, think not, ye that loved her, Of the pallor hushed and dread,Where the winds, like heavy mourners, Cry about her lonesome bed,But of white hands softly reaching As the shadow o'er her fell,Downward from the golden bastion Of the eternal citadel.