ide him
Like the beauty of her smile;
And that when the corn was ripened
And the vintage harvest prest,
She would see him home returning
To the Valley of the West.

When the moon had veiled her splendor,
And went lessening down the blue,
And along the eastern hill-tops
Burned the morning in the dew,
They had parted--each one feeling
That their lives had separate ends;
They had parted--neither happy--
Less than lovers--more than friends.
For as Jessie mused in silence,
She remembered that he said,
Never, that he loved her fondly,
Or that ever they should wed.

'Twas full many a nameless meaning
My poor words can never say,
Felt without the need of utterance,
That had won her heart away.

O the days were weary! weary!
And the eves were dull and long,
With the cricket's chirp of sorrow,
And the owlet's mournful song.
But in slumber oft she started
In the still and lonesome nights,
Hearing but the traveller's footstep
Hurrying toward the village lights.

So, moaned by the dreary winter--
All her household tasks fulfilled--
Till beneath the last year's rafters
Came the swallows back to build.
Meadow-pinks, like flakes of crimson,
Over all the valleys lay,
And again were oxen ploughing
Up and down the hills all day.
Thus the dim days dawned and faded
To the maid, forsaken, lorn,
Till the freshening breeze of summer
Shook the tassels of the corn.
Ever now within her chamber
All night long the lamp-light shines,
But no white hand from her casement
Pushes back the heavy vines.
On her cheek a fire was feeding,
And her hand transparent grew--
Ah, the faithless Allan Archer!
More than she had dreamed was true.

No complaint was ever uttered,
Only to herself she sighed,--
As she read of wretched poets
Who had pined of love and died.
Once she crushed the sudden crying
From her trembling lips away,
When they said the vintage harvest
Had been gathered in that day
Often, when they kissed her, smiled she,
Saying that it soothed her pain,
And that they must not be saddened--
She would soon be well again!
Thus nor hoping nor yet fearing,
Meekly bore she all her pain.
Till the red leaves of the