Ladies Express.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume IX, Issue 953, 18 June 1881, Page 1 (Supplement)

Ladies Express.

MY NEIGHBOUR'S CONFESSION [after she had been fortunate]. Yes, this is what my neighbour said that night, In the still shadow of her stately house (Fortune came to her when her head was white), What time dark leaves were weird in withering boughs, And each late rose sighed with its latest breath, “This sweet world is too sweet to end in death.” But this is what my neighbour said to me : “ I grieved my youth away, for that or this. I had upon my hand the ring you see, With pretty babies in my arms to kiss, And one man said I had the sweetest eyes, He was quite sure, this side of Paradise. “ But then, our crowded cottage was so small, And spacious grounds would blossom full in sight; Then one would fret me with an India shawl, And one flash by me in a diamond’s light ; And one would show me yards of precious lace, And one look coldly from her painted face. “ I did not know that I had everything Till —I remembered it. Ah me ! ah me! I who had ears to hear the wild bird sing, And eyes to see the violets. It must be A bitter fate that jewels the grey hair, Which once was golden and had flowers to wear. “ In the old house, in my old room, for years, The haunted cradle of my little ones gone Would hardly let me look at it for tears. . . . Oh, my lost nurselings ! I stay on and on, Only to miss you from the empty light Of my lone fire—with my own grave in sight. “ In the old house, too, in its own old place, Handsome and young, and looking toward the gate Through which it flushed to meet me, is a face For which, ah me! I never more shall wait — For which, ah me ! I wait forever, I Who, for the hope of it, can surely die. “ Young men write gracious letters here to me, That ought to fill this mother heart of mine. The youth in this one crowds all Italy 1 This glimmers with the far Pacific’s shine. The first poor little hand that warmed my breast Wrote this—the date is old ; you know the rest. “ Oh, if I only could have back my boys, With their lost gloves and books for me to find, Their scattered playthings and their pleasant noise 1 I sit here in the splendour, growing blind, With hollow hands that backward reach and ache For the sweet trouble which the children make.” —Scribner's Monthly.