Poems (Allen)/The Amber Rosary

by Elizabeth Chase Allen

THE AMBER ROSARY.

Y birthday! I must keep it, as of old,
 And wear some token of a holiday;
For see the woods are gay with red and gold,
 And Autumn sings her merriest roundelay.

I have no heart for dainty robes to-day,
 And flowers do not suit me any more;
So, from the darkness where it hides away,
 I take this relic of the days of yore,—

Only an antique amber rosary,
 Whose beads still hold the mellow light of Rome,
Clasped by a cross of blackest ebony,
 Fashioned by loving fingers here at home.

And as I lift again the chain and cross,
 The bright beads seem a wreath of golden days,
Ended too soon by black and bitter loss,
 Made gloomier still by their contrasting rays.

O, liquidly the sunlight filters through
 These shining spheres of warm translucent gold,
Changing to drops of rich and wondrous hue,
 Like precious wine of vintage rare and old.

Ah me! this rosary, in other lands,
 Has learned more prayers than I shall ever know,—
Its slow beads slipped and smoothed by pious hands,
 Whose pulses stopped a hundred years ago.

It keeps an odor mystical and dim,
 As of old churches, where the censer swings,—
Where, listening to the echo-chanted hymn,
 The sculptured angels fold their marble wings.

Where through the windows melts the unwilling light,
 And in its passage learns their gorgeous stain,
Then bars the gloom with rays all rainbow-bright,
 As human souls grow beautiful through pain.

One birthday,—it might be a year ago,
 Or fifty, or a thousand,—one who smiled
Counted these beads, and praised their marvellous glow,
 Saying, "I bring a gift to you, dear child,—

"An amulet, not made of gems or gold,
 But drops of light, imprisoned from above.
Gold were too heavy; gems, too hard and cold;
 And only amber suits the soul of love.

"What fitter birthday token could I give?
 See how the clear orbs answer to the sun!
I clasp them at your throat, and you shall live
 A perfect golden year for every one!"

"Then why the cross?" I asked. He sighed and said,
 "For possible sorrows." Ah, these useless tears!
The hand which placed it here, now cold and dead,
 Forgets to twine for me the golden years.

Forgets to bless her waiting head, who wears
 For his dear sake these amber beads to-day,—
Forgets to make the cruel cross she bears
 Grow lighter as the birthdays wear away.

Yet still the amber gleams, and unawares
 Turns all to gold beneath its mellow ray;
O pure hearts, glowing with remembered prayers,
 Plead for her peace who has no heart to pray!