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Title: Daisy May: A Story Of Christmastide
Author: J. C. Manning [
More Titles by Manning]
A STORY OF CHRISTMASTIDE LONG AGO.
PART THE FIRST.
"Don't bolt the door, John," said the Dame,
Who sat esconced in oaken chair,
The good man paused, and back he came,
Silent, and with a troubled air.
"To night 'tis just a year ago
Since Daisy left," the mother sighed.
"Don't blame the child, I loved her so;
But better had our darling died."
The father spake not. Glistening bright
A tear stole down the mother's cheek.
"A year to-night! A year to-night!
I sometimes think my heart will break."
'Tis Christmas-eve, and in that cot
The good old couple grieve and yearn
For one, though absent, ne'er forgot:
"Don't bolt the door, she may return."
"She may return." The midnight chime
With mystic music fills the air,
And bears the news, "'Tis Christmas time,"
In sobbing wavelets everywhere.
PART THE SECOND
Our village pride was Daisy May;
A fairy being, all too good
For earthly thought--as bright as day--
Just blooming into womanhood.
The low, sweet music of her voice,
Was like the sound of rippling rills;
It bade the listening heart rejoice,
And won as with enchanting spells.
Her eyes, like violets dipt in dew,
The soul enthralled with tender glance,
That gave to things a brighter hue,
And fringed our lives with new romance.
And from her forehead, white as pearl,
There hung a cloud of golden hair,
Whose lustre threw around the girl
A halo such as angels wear.
"Ah, me!" sighed many a village swain,
"Her love what bliss 'twould be to win
He whom the beauteous prize shall gain
Will open Heaven and enter in."
And as she passed with girlish grace
She met the glance of every eye,
Till blushes fluttered o'er her face
Like roses when the sun goes by.
But while in virgin life she walkt;
While sunlight round her footsteps played,
Abroad unbridled Passion stalked:
She loved, and, trusting, was betrayed.
And in the city, 'mongst the gay,
Far, far from friends who mourned her fate,
She flung Love's precious pearls away,
And woke, but woke, alas, too late.
She woke to find herself alone,
Save baby sleeping at her breast:
In that vast city all unknown,
Unloved, unpitied, and unblest.
Unloved by one who swore to love;
Unpitied by the cruel crowd;
Unblest by all save Him above,
To whom she prayed in grief aloud.
In fitful dreams she saw, and oft,
That humble cottage by the burn;
And heard a voice, so sweet and soft:
"Don't bolt the door, she may return."
"She may return." Delicious dream.
"Then mother loves me still," she sighed.
Ah! little knew she of the stream
Of tears that mother shed and dried.
Of weary watches in the night;
Of aching heart throughout the day;
Of darkened hours that once were bright,
Made glad by her now far away.
And when, in unforgiving mood,
The father urged his tenets stern,
How oft that mother tearful stood:
"Don't bolt the door, she may return."
PART THE THIRD.
'Tis Christmas Eve: the midnight chime
With mystic music fills the air,
And bears the news, "'Tis Christmas time,"
In sobbing wavelets everywhere.
Without, the weird wind whistles by;
Clothed is the ground with drifting snow;
Within, the yule logs, piled on high,
Their cheery warmth and comfort throw.
And in that cottage by the moor,
Where father, mother, mourning dwell.
The fire is bright, where hearts are sore
The chime to them a mournful knell.
"What's that?" the mother faintly said:
"Methought I heard a weary sigh."
The father sadly shook his head:
"Tis but the wind that wanders by."
Again the Dame, with drowsy start--
"It is no dream--I heard a groan."
Oh, the misgivings of her heart!
"'Tis but the music's murmuring moan."
They little thought, while thus they sighed,
That at their threshold, fainting, lay
The child for whom they would have died,
For whom they prayed both night and day.
'Twas bitter chill! The snowy fall
Came drifting slowly through the air,
And gently clothed with ghostly pall
The wasted form that slumbered there.
And all the live-long night she slept,
While breaking hearts within grew sore;
While father, mother, mourned and wept,
She lay in silence at the door.
Till, in the morning, all aglow,
The sun, in looking o'er the hill,
Like sculptured marble in the snow,
Saw Daisy, stony, stark, and still.
Then tenderly, in coffined state,
The hapless girl they grave-ward bore,
And, as they mourned her cruel fate,
Her tomb with flowers scattered o'er.
Leaving the broken-hearted child
To sleep in peace beneath the sod,
And he who first her heart beguiled
To cope with conscience and his God.
[The end]
J. C. Manning's poem: Daisy May: A Story Of Christmastide
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