Poems (Denver)/The Stepmother

by Mary Caroline Denver

THE STEPMOTHER.

Well may thy brow be overcast,
 With tears thine eye grow dim,
Tears that, with thought of all the past,
 Thy heart fill to the brim.
The cares of earth have just begun
 To gather round thy heart,
And hopes whose goal seemed almost won,
 Have plumed them to depart.

No more! thy ear shall drink no more
 A language passion-fraught;
Thy heart hath left the fairy shore
 Of free, untrammeled thought.
Thou hear'st no more the pleasant streams
 That made thy childhood glad;
Thy heart hath fallen on graver themes,
 And therefore art thou sad.

Thou art thinking of the time when thou,
 In all thy beauty's pride,
First graced the halls thou claimest now,
 A young and joyous bride.
'Tis but a little while—and yet,
 How like an age it seems!
For many a sun hath risen and set
 Within thy world of dreams.

There dwelt admiring glances near,
 And words of praise there fell;
And strains of music on thine ear
 Stole with a joyous swell.
But the sound of voices, low and sweet,
 Broke on thy heart instead,
And the tripping forth of little feet
 Mixed with the dancers' tread.

Thou sawest those earnest eyes again,
 Raised tearfully to thine,
As if their little hearts would fain
 Around thine own entwine.
And in that glance was read, indeed,
 In language deep and strong,
Of childish hearts that felt the need
 Of sympathy too long.

And then a shadowy form arose
 Before thy thoughtful eye,
And thy very life within seemed froze,
 For the dead was drawing nigh.
And with a solemn, noiseless tread,
 She glided by thy side,
Till every wish seemed with the dead,
 And near to heaven allied.

And still she stands beside thee, when
 The shadowy eve has come,
And earnestly she pleadeth then
 For her once happy home.
That thou wilt cheer those orphan hearts,
 And teach the way to heaven,
So that, when earthly hope departs,
 Some heavenly strength be given.

O! many a weary sun will rise,
 And weary sun will set,
Ere thou canst knit the broken ties
 That once in gladness met.
And jealous hearts, perchance, will deem
 Thy path too bright with flowers,
And strive to intercept the beam
 That gilds thy happier hours.

But still despair not! with the morn
 The darkness disappears;
And hope of stem affliction born,
 A glorious halo wears;
Lift up thy prayerful heart on high,
 And all the ills, that seem
To press thee to the earth, will fly
 Even as a noonday dream.