Volume 20 — MONA'S MOTHER.

In the porch that brier-vines smother, At her wheel, sits Mona's mother. O, the day is dying bright! Roseate shadows, silver dimming, Ruby lights through amber swimming, Bring the still and starry night. Sudden she is 'ware of shadows Going out across the meadows From the slowly sinking sun,— Going through the misty spaces That the rippling ruby laces, Shadows, like the violets tangled, Like the soft light, softly mingled, Till the two seem just as one! Every tell-tale wind doth waft her Little breaths of maiden laughter. O, divinely dies the day! And the swallow, on the rafter, In her nest of sticks and clay,— On the rafter, up above her, With her patience doth reprove her, Twittering soft the time away; Never stopping, never stopping, With her wings so warmly dropping Round her nest of sticks and clay. "Take, my bird, O take some other Eve than this to twitter gay!" Sayeth, prayeth Mona's mother, To the slender-throated swallow On her nest of sticks and clay; For her sad eyes needs must follow Down the misty, mint-sweet hollow, Where the ruby colors play With the gold, and with the gray. "Yet, my little Lady-feather, You do well to sit and sing," Crieth, sigheth Mona's mother. "If you would, you could no other. Can the leaf fail with the spring? Can the tendril stay from twining When the sap begins to run? Or the dew-drop keep from shining With her body full o' the sun? Nor can you, from gladness, either; Therefore, you do well to sing. Up and o'er the downy lining Of your bird-bed I can see Two round little heads together, Pushed out softly through your wing. But alas! my bird, for me!" In the porch with roses burning All across, she sitteth lonely. O, her soul is dark with dread! Round and round her slow wheel turning, Lady brow down-dropped serenely, Lady hand uplifted queenly, Pausing in the spinning only To rejoin the broken thread,— Pausing only for the winding, With the carded silken binding Of the flax, the distaff-head. All along the branches creeping, To their leafy beds of sleeping Go the blue-birds and the brown; Blackbird stoppeth now his clamor, And the little yellowhammer Droppeth head in winglet down. Now the rocks rise bleak and barren Through the twilight, gray and still; In the marsh-land now the heron Clappeth close his horny bill. Death-watch now begins his drumming And the fire-fly, going, coming, Weaveth zigzag lines of light,— Lines of zigzag, golden-threaded, Up the marshy valley, shaded O'er and o'er with vapors white. Now the lily, open-hearted, Of her dragon-fly deserted, Swinging on the wind so low, Gives herself, with trust audacious, To the wild warm wave that washes Through her fingers, soft and slow. O the eyes of Mona's mother! Dim they grow with tears unshed; For no longer may they follow Down the misty mint-sweet hollow, Down along the yellow mosses That the brook with silver crosses. Ah! the day is dead, is dead; And the cold and curdling shadows, Stretching from the long, low meadows, Darker, deeper, nearer spread, Till she cannot see the twining Of the briers, nor see the lining Round the porch of roses red,— Till she cannot see the hollow, Nor the little steel-winged swallow, On her clay-built nest o'erhead. Mona's mother falleth mourning: O, 't is hard, so hard, to see Prattling child to woman turning, As to grander company! Little heart she lulled with hushes Beating, burning up with blushes, All with meditative dreaming On the dear delicious gleaming Of the bridal veil and ring; Finding in the sweet ovations Of its new, untried relations Better joys than she can bring. In her hand her wheel she keepeth, And her heart within her leapeth, With a burdened, bashful yearning, For the babe's weight on her knee, For the loving lisp of glee, Sweet as larks' throats in the morning, Sweet as hum of honey-bee. "O my child!" cries Mona's mother, "Will you, can you take another Name ere mine upon your lips? Can you, only for the asking, Give to other hands the clasping Of your rosy finger-tips?" Fear on fear her sad soul borrows,— O the dews are falling fair! But no fair thing now can move her; Vainly walks the moon above her, Turning out her golden furrows On the cloudy fields of air. Sudden she is 'ware of shadows, Coming in across the meadows, And of murmurs, low as love,— Murmurs mingled like the meeting Of the winds, or like the beating Of the wings of dove with dove. In her hand the slow wheel stoppeth, Silken flax from distaff droppeth, And a cruel, killing pain Striketh up from heart to brain; And she knoweth by that token That the spinning all is vain, That the troth-plight has been spoken, And the thread of life thus broken Never can be joined again.