Part 2 — SPRING IN THE ALLEY.

She stooped and told him that the Spring was born; A ring of triumph in her fresh young voice; For she, poor child, was in her life’s glad morn, And the soft sunshine made her heart rejoice. ‘Wert thou not longing for the Spring?’ she said; But the pale sufferer sadly shook his head, And gazed with sunken eyes upon her face, Till its pure beauty filled his soul with peace, Then smoothed her locks, and in a fond embrace, Clasping her slender form, he whispered: ‘Cease To sing the praises of the young Spring flowers; Child of the narrow court! they are not ours!’ O’er the despondent sufferer bending low, Till her fair tresses swept his throbbing brow, With tender glistening eyes, and cheeks aglow With joy and hope, she softly told him how, Not very far away, the golden bees Wooed the white clusters of the hawthorn trees. She spoke of twittering birds, and raised her eyes, Bright with the glory of poetic thought, To the dark ceiling that shut out the skies, And lowered upon her, as she vainly sought, With words of loving sympathy, to cheer The flickering life that suffering made so dear. For oh, that life, unlovely though it seemed, Was the dear object of her fondest love; Volumes of witching poesy she dreamed, Morn, noon, and evening, as she bent above His weary form, yet neither light nor bloom Could tempt her footsteps from that dingy room. Oft, when she heard his hollow cough, she wept In the still midnight—how it wrung her heart! Yea, she could hear it even when she slept, And often wakened with a feverish start, Beseeching God, in many a tearful prayer, To ease the pain that she so longed to share. Blithely she carolled when the morning sun Rose o’er the alley like a blushing bride; Or grave and silent, like some meek-faced nun, Plied she her needle by the sufferer’s side— And oh, it was so sweet to toil for him Till her hands trembled, and her eyes grew dim! Till from those weary hands her work would fall, And her dim vision could distinguish nought Save the black spiders crawling on the wall, And the dead violets she herself had bought With the few coppers she had stored away From her poor scanty earnings day by day. For when before the market-stall she stood, Her little purse clasped tightly in her hand, She needs must purchase—for each dewy bud Seemed like a messenger from fairyland; And well her fine poetic fancy knew The sheltered places where the violets grew. And when she raised them to her eager lips With the pure rapture of a little child, The dewdrops twinkled on their azure tips, Till the young dreamer bent her face and smiled With the sweet consciousness that they would bring Into the meanest slum a breath of Spring. Returning home, her joyous footsteps fell Like the soft patter of the summer rain; And oh, one weary sufferer knew it well, And moaned a welcome from his bed of pain! Close to his breast she crept, and kneeling there, He twined the violets in her sunny hair. Charmed from his fretful mood, the sufferer laid One thin white hand upon her worn gray dress; ‘Dear child!’ he murmured, while the sunbeams played At hide-and-seek amid each wandering tress, ‘Withdraw the blind—let in the rosy morn; I too am grateful that the Spring is born!’ Fanny Forrester.