OLD GODFREY'S RELIC.

simple, upright man was he, Of spirit undefiled, Cheerful and hale at seventy-three, As any blithesome child. Old Godfrey's friends and neighbors felt His due was honest praise; Ofttimes how fervently they dwelt On his brave words and ways! He had no foeman in the land Whose deeds or tongue would gall; Of guileless heart, of liberal hand, He smiled on one and all. But most, I think, he smiled on me; "Your eyes, dear boy," he said, "Remind me, though not mournfully, Of eyes whose light is dead." How oft beneath his roof I've been On eves of wintry blight, And heard his magic violin Make musical the night. No consort by his board was set, No child his hearth had known, Yet of all souls I've ever met, His seemed the least alone.

What stories in my eager ears He poured of peace or strife; Keen memories of the thrilling years That thronged his ocean life. And oh, he showed such marvellous things From unknown sea and shore, That, brimmed with strange imaginings, My boy's brain bubbled o'er! It wandered back o'er many a track Of his old life-toil free; The enchanted calm, the fiery wrack, Far off, far off at sea! For once he dared the watery world, O'er wild or halcyon waves, And saw his snow-white sails unfurled Above a million graves. Northward he went, thro' ice and sleet, Where soon the sunbeams fail, And followed with an armed fleet The wide wake of the whale. Southward he went through airs serene Of soft Sicilian noon, And sang, on level decks, between The twilight and the moon. But once—it was a tranquil time, An evening half divine, When the low breeze like murmurous rhyme Sighed through the sunset fine. Once, Godfrey from the secret place Wherein his treasures lay, Brought forth, with calmly museful face, This relic to the day— A soft tress with a silken tie, A brightly shimmering curl; Such as might shadow goldenly The fair brow of a girl. "Oh, lovelier," cried I, "than the dawn Auroral mists enfold, The long and luminous threadlets drawn Through this rich curl of gold! "Tell, tell me, o'er whose graceful head You saw the ringlet shine?" Thereon the old man coolly said, "Why, lad, the tress is mine! "Look not amazed, but come with me, And let me tell you where And how, one morning fearfully, I lost that lock of hair." He led me past his cottage screen Of flowers, far down the wood Where, towering o'er the landscape green, A centuried oak-tree stood. "Here is the place," he said, "whereon Heaven helped me in sore strait, And in a March morn's radiance wan Turned back the edge of fate! "My father a stout yeoman was, And I, in childish pride, That morning through the dew-drenched grass, Walked gladly by his side, "Till here he paused, with glittering steel, A prostrate trunk to smite; How the near woodland seemed to reel Beneath his blows of might! "And round about me viciously The splinters flashed and flew; Some sharply grazed the shuddering eye, Some pattered down the dew. "Childlike, I strove to pick them up, But stumbling forward, sunk, O'er the wild pea and buttercup, Across the smitten trunk. "Just then, with all its ponderous force The axe was hurtling down; What spell could stay its savage course? What charm could save my crown? "Too late, too late to stop the blow; I shrieked to see it come; My father's blood grew cold as snow; My father's voice was dumb. "He staggered back a moment's space, Glaring on earth and skies; Blank horror in his haggard face, Dazed anguish in his eyes. "He searched me close to find my wound; He searched with sobbing breath; But not the smallest gateway found Opened to welcome death. "He thanked his God in ardent wise, Kneeling 'twixt shine and shade; Then lowered his still half-moistened eyes O'er the keen axe's blade. "Two hairs clung to it!... thence, he turned Where the huge log had rolled, And there in tempered sunlight burned A quivering curl of gold. "The small thing looked alive!... it stirred By breeze and sunbeam kissed, And fluttered like an Orient bird, Half-glimpsed through sunrise mist. "Oh! keen and sheer the axe-edge smote The perfect curl apart! Even now, through tingling head and throat, I feel the old terror dart. "My father kept his treasure long, 'Mid seasons grave or gay, Till to death's plaintive curfew-song, Calmly he passed away. "I, too, the token still so fair, Have held with tendance true; And dying, this memorial hair I'll leave, dear lad, to you!"