THE ZEPHYR.

———

BY JULIET H. LEWIS.

———

I sat by the casement; before me there

Lay a treasured thing, a long tress of hair,

And it moved my heart with a touching power—

’Twas the cherished gift of a parting hour.

The sun-shine lay ’mid its nut-brown fold

With a loving smile, as it did of old.

When the curl waved free in its careless grace,

Like a cloud in the sky, o’er the smiling face

Of the gentle girl that I loved so well—

A dimming tear on the bright lock fell

As thoughts of the loved one far away,

And the teeming past, on my sad heart lay.

A Zephyr, that all this time had play’d,

Like a laughing child, ’mid the rose tree’s shade,

Flew up, like a bird, to the casement there,

And bore off in triumph the lock of hair.

’Twas a cruel theft! and harsh words of blame,

Like a mountain stream, from my full heart came,

For the reckless deeds of the careless thing,

Ever hovering near on mischievous wing.

But the day before, he had entered my bower,

And scattered the leaves of its loveliest flower,

And bore off a letter that lay unread,

’Neath the scented buds, on a mossy bed,

To the brook hard by, who, with dimpled cheek

And a smothered laugh at the Zephyr’s freak,

Received the gift, and bounded on

As wild, and free, as a forest fawn,

To its hiding spots ’neath the greenwood shade,

Glancing back, through the leaves, where the young wind play’d.

“Now! Spirit of Air,” I cried, “gay breeze—

Are all thine acts as unkind as these?

Thy wings are unfettered—thy path is free—

Yet mine is the power to follow thee.”

Then thought sprang up on her weariless wing,

And tracked the wind, in imagining.

He stole the white plume from the thistle’s crest,

Which was light as down on the swan’s pure breast,

And with waving wing bore the prize away

To a happy group ’mid the flowers at play,

And fanning the cheek of each laughing boy,

With his cooling wing, waved the downy toy

Their bright heads above, and the careless band,

With eager eye, and with outstretched hand,

Ran away, in chase of the silvery thing

That the Zephyr bore on exulting wing.

Now slowly it floated their hands beneath—

Now upward it sprang on a stronger breath—

Now wafted afar—’twas a merry race

The Zephyr to lead, and the children in chase!

He left them behind, but bore along

Their glee-toned voices, in joyous song,

And each lone mother looked up and smiled,

As she caught the tones of her darling child,

And paused awhile from her toil, to bless

The heart, o’erflowing with happiness.

Then he went his way and on manhood’s brow

His cooling fingers are busy now,

He parts the dark hair from its resting place,

And prints a kiss on the anxious face,

And woos him to leave the dust and glare

Of the crowded town, for a spot more fair,

Where trees in blossom, and birds on wing,

Lead the rapt heart from each worldly thing.

But man heeds not, for his rest is sold,

And his heart bows down to the god of gold;

For the tempting Zephyr he “cares not a groat,”

He is eagerly reaching a “ten pound note,”

That ragged, and soiled on the counter doth lay,

But the Zephyr indignantly bears it away.

He toss’d it, he pull’d it, he twirled it around,

Now high in the air, and now low on the ground,

He moaned in derision, he whistled with glee,

Ah! never was Zephyr as merry as he,

Till at length, in his frolic, he entered a shed

Where a widow was praying for daily bread,

In the voice of faith, low, subdued and mild,

She prayed for food for her starving child:

Then the wind bowed down with its burden there,

And Heaven thus answered the widow’s prayer.

Then he entered the halls, where many a scene

Of joyous pleasure, and mirth had been—

He softly sighed o’er the festal board,

Where the jest had passed, and the red wine poured,

He swept the harp with his quivering wing,

And woke the tones of each mournful string,

While his murmuring voice, with its gentle chime,

Seemed singing a song of the olden time,

Or breathing a dirge o’er the gay hearts fled

To their silent homes ’mid the lowly dead.

He sighed through the banners that hung on high—

(Dimmed was their gorgeous blazonry,)

But they waved aloft, as they waved of old,

When the shout and song shook each heavy fold,

While the dust fell down in a darkening cloud—

And the moth was rocked in her silken shroud—

And the bat sprang forth from his loathsome nest,

’Mid the pennons there, an unseemly guest!

Then he went to the violet’s lonely bowers,

And gathered their breath, though he left the flowers,

And hastened on with the rich perfume

And a gladsome song, to the invalid’s room.

He hushed his voice as he entered there,

For holy and sad rose the sound of prayer,

With his wealth from the woods he wafted on,

And rushing memories of bright things gone

To the dying bore, while a low-breathed sigh,

Told of the Zephyr’s sympathy.

One tender act that he did that day,

Was a moment to pause where a stranger lay,

In an unknown land, with no loved one near

To breathe a sigh o’er his lowly bier,

Or moisten his grave with the tear-drops shed

From the mourning heart, o’er the loved and the dead.

Then mounting upward, on breezy wing,

To the white haw tree richly blossoming,

And, gathering its sweets with a gentle wave,

He spread them like snow o’er the stranger’s grave.

Green leaf, and bud, and starry flower,

Filled the rich air, like a lovely shower

Of bright things, sent from a fairy land,

And lay on the grave as though some kind hand

Had scattered, that silent heart above,

The sweets that in life it had learned to love.

But ’twere vain to tell of his wanderings free

O’er leafy land, and o’er foaming sea—

How he swept round the palace, and played through the cot—

Passed “the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot;”

How he wafted the purple of lordly pride,

And fluttered the rags of the beggar aside,

How he made of a spray-capped wave his steed,

And rode o’er the ocean with Jehu speed,

(’Till his charger tossed its snowy mane,

And sank to its native depths again,)

How he hastened the ship on her homeward way,

And scattered her track with the ocean’s spray.

’Twere vain to number the acts like these,

That were done that day, by the joyous Breeze—

While I could but mark that, what first seemed rude,

Was gentle, and tender, and kind, and good.

I followed him far on his wayward track,

And when, from wandering, I turned me back,

He whispered at parting, these words, methought,

To my hasty heart,—“Judge not! judge not!”