The New Wife And The Old

Dark the halls, and cold the feast,     Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest.     All is over, all is done,     Twain of yesterday are one!     Blooming girl and manhood gray,     Autumn in the arms of May!     Hushed within and hushed without,     Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout;     Dies the bonfire on the hill;     All is dark and all is still,     Save the starlight, save the breeze     Moaning through the graveyard trees,     And the great sea-waves below,     Pulse of the midnight beating slow.     From the brief dream of a bride     She hath wakened, at his side.     With half-uttered shriek and start,     Feels she not his beating heart?     And the pressure of his arm,     And his breathing near and warm?     Lightly from the bridal bed     Springs that fair dishevelled head,     And a feeling, new, intense,     Half of shame, half innocence,     Maiden fear and wonder speaks     Through her lips and changing cheeks.     From the oaken mantel glowing,     Faintest light the lamp is throwing     On the mirror's antique mould,     High-backed chair, and wainscot old,     And, through faded curtains stealing,     His dark sleeping face revealing.     Listless lies the strong man there,     Silver-streaked his careless hair;     Lips of love have left no trace     On that hard and haughty face;     And that forehead's knitted thought     Love's soft hand hath not unwrought.     "Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well,     More than these calm lips will tell.     Stooping to my lowly state,     He hath made me rich and great,     And I bless him, though he be     Hard and stern to all save me!"     While she speaketh, falls the light     O'er her fingers small and white;     Gold and gem, and costly ring     Back the timid lustre fling,     Love's selectest gifts, and rare,     His proud hand had fastened there.     Gratefully she marks the glow     From those tapering lines of snow;     Fondly o'er the sleeper bending     His black hair with golden blending,     In her soft and light caress,     Cheek and lip together press.     Ha! that start of horror! why     That wild stare and wilder cry,     Full of terror, full of pain?     Is there madness in her brain?     Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low,     "Spare me, spare me, let me go!"     God have mercy! icy cold     Spectral hands her own enfold,     Drawing silently from them     Love's fair gifts of gold and gem.     "Waken! save me!" still as death     At her side he slumbereth.     Ring and bracelet all are gone,     And that ice-cold hand withdrawn;     But she hears a murmur low,     Full of sweetness, full of woe,     Half a sigh and half a moan     "Fear not! give the dead her own!"     Ah! the dead wife's voice she knows!     That cold hand whose pressure froze,     Once in warmest life had borne     Gem and band her own hath worn.     "Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes     Open with a dull surprise.     In his arms the strong man folds her,     Closer to his breast he holds her;     Trembling limbs his own are meeting,     And he feels her heart's quick beating     "Nay, my dearest, why this fear?"     "Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!"     "Nay, a dream, an idle dream."     But before the lamp's pale gleam     Tremblingly her hand she raises.     There no more the diamond blazes,     Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold,     "Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!"     Broken words of cheer he saith,     But his dark lip quivereth,     And as o'er the past he thinketh,     From his young wife's arms he shrinketh;     Can those soft arms round him lie,     Underneath his dead wife's eye?     She her fair young head can rest     Soothed and childlike on his breast,     And in trustful innocence     Draw new strength and courage thence;     He, the proud man, feels within     But the cowardice of sin!     She can murmur in her thought     Simple prayers her mother taught,     And His blessed angels call,     Whose great love is over all;     He, alone, in prayerless pride,     Meets the dark Past at her side!     One, who living shrank with dread     From his look, or word, or tread,     Unto whom her early grave     Was as freedom to the slave,     Moves him at this midnight hour,     With the dead's unconscious power!     Ah, the dead, the unforgot!     From their solemn homes of thought,     Where the cypress shadows blend     Darkly over foe and friend,     Or in love or sad rebuke,     Back upon the living look.     And the tenderest ones and weakest,     Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,     Lifting from those dark, still places,     Sweet and sad-remembered faces,     O'er the guilty hearts behind     An unwitting triumph find