MARIE.

Little Marie is lonesome, Little Marie is sad, Tho’ the summer sun is shining And the summer days are glad. Ever she stops to listen As her weary task she plies, Anon at the open window Lingers with dreamy eyes. Not at the distant woodlands, Veiled in a golden haze, Or the miles between of meadow And wheat and rippling maze, Dotted with elms and maples That move in the morning breeze, And now and then a farm-house Shaded by apple trees, The shallow, winding streamlet, Where cattle lazily wade, Here in the sunlight flashing, Trembling there in the shade— Not at the quiet landscape Gazes she; far and dim She sees the white clouds fleecy That crown the horizon’s rim. They are the snow-clad mountains She saw from the chalet low, Where she dwelt in the dear old Rhineland— Ah! it seems so long ago. Not to the streamlet’s murmur Listens she; far away Gurgles a mountain torrent Over the rocks all day— Gurgles and laughs and plashes, Turning the mill-wheel ’round; Gurgles and laughs so merry— Hush! she can hear the sound. She and the village children Clamber along its route; Ernest is always leading— Hark! she can hear him shout: “Marie! I’ll help thee, Marie!” She reaches her hand to him— Sudden the wide eyes vacant Fountains of tear-drops brim. Suddenly far and mocking Sounds the voice of the brook. She turns away from her mountains; Ah, no, no! she must not look. “Courage, my little Marie!” Was it an echo, then? When he went off to the battles— He never came back again— Thus did he say, her lover, Stroking her golden hair: “Courage, my little Marie!” Hist! a step on the stair. Idling and dreaming, Marie! Quick to her work she flies; What if the madame find her Staring with wistful eyes? All in the land of strangers Pity is sweet and rare. Dreary the life before her, Never a soul to care. So, tho’ the sun be shining, So, tho’ the day be glad, Sometimes she loses courage, Sometimes Marie is sad.