POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2254, 19 May 1881, Page 4

POETRY.

FROM EXILE.

Paths, Bbptemdeb 3bd, 1879,

(A Mother speaks.) Ah, dear God, when will it bo day ? I cannot sloop, I cannot pray. Tossing, I watch tho silent stars Mount up from the horizon bars: Orion with his flaming sword, Proud chieftain of tho glorious nordo ; Auriga up tho lofty arch Pursuing still his stately march — So patient and so calm are they. Ah, dear God ! when will it bo day ? —Oh Mary, Mother ! Hark ! I hear A cock crow through tho silence clear! The dawn’s faint crimson streaks the east, And, afar off, I catch the least Low murmur of the city’s stir As she shakos off the dreams of her! List! there’s a sound of hurrying feet Ear down below me in the street. Thank God ! the weary night is past— Tho morning comes—’tis day at last, "Wake, Rosalie ! Awake ; arise ! Tho sun is up, it gilds the skies. She does not stir. The young sleep sound As dead men in their graves profound. Ho, Rosalie ! At last ? Now haste! To-dsy there is no time to waste. Bring mo fresh water. Braid my hair. Hand me tho glass. Once I was fair As thou art. Now I look so old It seems my death-knell should be tolled.

11l ? No ! (I want no wine.) So pale ? Like a white ghost, so wan and frail ? Well, that’s not strange. All night I lay Waiting and watching for the day. Bnt—there ! I’ll drink it j it may make My obceks burn brighter for his sake Who comes to-day. My boy ! my boy ! How can I bear the unwonted joy ? I, who for eight long years have wept While happier mothers smiling slept ; While others docked their sons first-born Eor dance, or fete, or bridal mom ; Or proudly smiled to see him stand Tho stateliest pillars of the land ! Eor ho, so gallant and so gay, As young and debonair as they. My beaut iful, bravo boy, my life, Went down in the unequal strife ! Tho right or wrong ? Oh, what care I ? The good God judged up on high.

And now he gives him back to me ? I—tremble so—l scarce can see. How full the streets are ! I will wait His coming here beside this gate, Prom which I watched him as he went Eight years ago, to banishment. I will sit down. Speak, Rosalie, when You see a band of stalwart men, With one fair boy among them—one With bright hair shining in tho sun, Red, smiling lips, and eager eyes. Blue as tho blue of summer skies. My boy ! my boy ! Why come they not ? Oh Son of God ! hast Thou forgot Thy Mother’s agony ? Yet she, Was oho not stronger far than we. Wo common mothers ? Could she know Erom her fur heights such pain and woe ? Run further down the street, and see If they’re not coming, Rosalie.

Mother of Christ! how lag the hours I What ? just beyond tho convent towers, And coming straight this way ? Oh heart, Be still and strong, and boar thy part, Thy new part bravely. Hark 1 I hear Above the city’s hum tho near, Slow tread of marching feet ; I see— Nay, I can not see, Rosalie— Your eyes are younger. Is he there. My Antoine, with his sunny hair ? It is like gold ; it shines in the sun ; Surely you see it ? What? Notone— _ Not one bright head ? All old, old men, Grey-haired, grey-bearded, gaunt! Then —then]

Ho has not come—ho is ill, or dead ! Oh God, that I were in thy stead ! My son !my son ? Who touches me ? Your pardon, sir. lam not she Eor whom you look. Go farther on Ere yet the daylight shall be gone.

“Mother!” Who calls me “mother?” You ? Xou are not he—my Antoine. You Are a grey-bearded man, and he la a mere boy. You mistake me Eor some one else. I’m sorry, sir. God blsss you ! Soon you will find her Eor whom you seek. But I—ah ! I—Still must I call and none reply ? You —kiss mo ? Antoine? Oh, my son! Thou art mine own, my banished one! —“ Harper’s Monthly.”