Poems (Douglas)/The Vacant Chair
The Vacant Chair.
Say, who is she with azure eye, And cheek so warmly, softly glowing,And hair as if the sunset's dye Was all its brightness there bestowing;And brow as stainless as the wreath Of snowy flowers her head adorning,And rose-bud lips that seem to breathe The balmy sweets of summer morning?
How graceful flow her swan-like dress, And gleams beneath her scarf so thin,A glow of healthful loveliness In the wan rose hue of her skin,As if the softest, slightest touch O'er marble neck and arm were laid—So very faint the dye, just such As gives that lovely life warm shade.
Well might the eye with rapture trace On that fair brow each guileless charm,And linger o'er that witching face, And o'er that bright and peerless form.
Well might young Edward, as his eye Dwelt fondly on his beauteous bride,Exclaim, in his soul's ecstacy, "Of Erin's maids she is the pride!My Nora, dear, this life's a dream, One happy, sunny dream about thee;To me this dear green isle would seem A barren wilderness without thee!"
But where has her young husband flown? Why sit the guests so silent there?The shades of night have stolen on, And yet is his a vacant chair.Pale is the cheek of that young bride, The smile from her sweet lip is fled;Her bridal wreath is flung aside, And droop'd in agony her head.
Had he deserted her? ah, no! His was a heart could know no change;His was a love whose fervent glow Time could not quench; and yet how strange,That he had smiling left her side, And bounded through a fragrant dellTo gather, for his lovely bride, Her fav'rite rose and heather bell.
He promised, with his fondest smile, Soon to rejoin them in the grove,She saw him cross the grassy stile— But he returns not to his love And they have search'd the valleys round, And sought him on the lone sea-shore,Call'd loudly on his name; no sound In answer came, save ocean's roar.
Now months and years have onward roll'd, And yet no word to the bereft,Of their dear lost one: still they hold That day as sacred when he leftHis happy home; still on that day His widow'd bride, the fond and fair,Bedecks her in the same array, And takes her seat beside his chair,
That vacant chair, oft wet with tears Wrung from fond hearts, with woe replete,It stands unoccupied for years, And no one dares profane that seat.The bridal day again returns, They sit in silence round the board,Each tear-fraught eye in muteness mourns For the long absent, long deplored.
But who is he that rudely throws Himself upon that hallow'd seat?With out-stretch'd hand each guest arose To raise the offender on his feet.The stranger bared his head, and waved The dark locks from his sun-burnt brow;Fair Nora's bosom wildly heaved, Her cheek burn'd with a sudden glow:
"Oh! Edward, Edward, it is you!" The seaman grasped his sinking bride;"My Nora, ever fond and true! My father, and my friends!" he cried.A shout of welcome and surprise Burst loudly from each wond'ring guest:And started to the seaman's eyes A tear that joy and love express'd.
That eve he left them he had been Surrounded by a war-ship's crew,Convey'd on board, toss'd on the main Long, long ere night her curtain drew:And he had ocean battles fought, Been captured on a foreign shore—Made his escape, and fondly sought The joys of his dear home once more!