1850-60.] CARRIE S. HIBBARD. 651 THE OLD DOOR-STONE. Half hidden there in rustling leaves, With velvet moss o'ergrown, Dark with the shade the willow weaves, Deep lies the old door-stone ; I sometimes fancy 'tis peopled still, That old house over the way — Fancy it echoes the joyous shout Of children merry at play. Each room has a voice that I love to hear, Each haunt where our feet have trod — Though some that walked beside me there Are resting now under the sod. The grass that grew by the garden wall Was parted aside one day, To lay down our Abbie, the dearest of all, To sleep 'neath the shadow for aye. And when sweet Minnie went a bride. Crowned with our hopes and prayers ; We smiled adieu, but the old door-stone Was spattered thick with tears. And o'er it, too, our Charley passed. But he'll never cross it more. For the ocean wave sweeps over him now, A thousand leagues from shore. And I mind me too, when the old door-stone Bore prints of the baby's feet ; When she came to us at dewy eve, With pinks and violets sweet. Ah, had she lived to bear her part In the warfare of after-years, I fear that both her eyes and heart Would have sometimes filled with tears. We may seek for other and fairer homes, But dearest, I know, and best. Will be the one whose hallowed rooms Our feet in childhood press'd. Be this my prayer — may He guide us all In wisdom, and mercy, and love ; Till He calls us up to that brighter home " Not built with hands," above. LADY MARY. Ladt Mary is riding by. Her black plumes nod in passing breeze ; I caught the glance of her hazel eye. Passing under the gateway trees. Lady Mary is riding by. Handsome and rich, ! why not I ? Ah ! pause, fair girl, ere thus you gaze At the nodding plumes and the faultless dress, She w^ould tell thee, child, that it ill re- pays The price of her former happiness; And gladly she'd give them all to you. For an hour of peace her girlhood knew. Those glittering bands wreathe a weary brow, Those satin folds cover an aching heart, And dark as her sable plumes the woe That is tearing the chords of her life apart. An unloved wife, what more than this Could chain us here to wretchedness ? Strangers meet in those princely halls. Though bound by the closest of human ties. And the mirror that hangs on those gilded walls Too often reflects back tearful eyes. Were it thine to choose, say, say, sweet maid. Would ye purchase wealth at the price she's paid ? She may keep her servants, her lands, her gold. Her wealth, her home, so dearly bought, I am happier here a thousandfold. And her pomp and beauty I envy not. Lady Mary is riding by. She is not rich — 'tis I, 'tis I.
