Rutland weekly herald. [volume] (Rutland, Vt.) 1859-1877, 1872-01-25
The Heart of New England.
By EDMUSD c. sTEDMAS II JANUARY At
LANTIC.


O long are years of waiting, when lovers
hearts are bound
last the half world round;
Long, long for him who wanders 1af anu
strives with all his main,
But crueier yet for her who Dides At AoAhe
and hides her paini
And lone are the homes Of New England
Twas in the mellow summer 1 heard her
The barefoot lads and Iasses a-berrying
The locust dinned amid the trees; the
fields were high with corn;
The white-sailed clouds against the SKY
like ships were onward borne:
And blue are the skies of New England.
Her lips were like the raspberries; her
cheeks were soft and fair,
And little breeZes stopped to lift the tan
gle other hair;
a light was in her halle eyes, and she was
To hear the words her lover spoke, and
pledged me there her troth-
And true is the word of New England.
When September brought the golden rod
and the naples burned like fire,
And bluer than in August rose the village
smoke and higher,
And large and red among the stack the
ripened pumpkins shOne-
One hour, in which to say farewell, was
left to us alone
And sweet are the lanes OF New England.
We loved each other truly! hard, hard it
was to part;
But my ring was ON her finger, and hef
hair lay next my heart.
Ills but year, my darling l said IN
one short year,
When our Western home is ready l shall
seek my Katie here
And brave is the hone of New, ENGLAND.
l went to gain a home for her, and in the
Golden State
With head and hand planned and toiled,
and early worked and late;
But luck was all against me, and sickness
on me lay,
And ere | got my strength again twas
many weary day
And long are the thoughts OF New Eng
land.
And many day, and many month, and
thrice the rolling year,
] Dravely strOve, and still the goal seemed
never yet more near.
My Katie's letters told me that she kept
her promise true,
But now, for very hOpeles5ness. my own to
her were few
And stern is the pride of New England.
But still she trusted in me, though sick
with hope deferred;
No more among the village choir her voice
was sweetest heard;
For when the wild nOrtheaster OF the
fourth long winter blew
SO thin her frame with pining, the cold
wind pierced her through
And chill are the blasts of New England.
At last. my fortunes beuered, on the far
Pacific shore,
And l thought to see old windham and
my patient love once moro
When kinsman's letter reached me-
''COme at once or come too latel
Y0UT katIa7S siren N Is failing If YOU love
her do Tot wait:
Come back to the Gins of New England
.. it wrung my heart with sorrow. 1 left
all else behind.
And straight for dear New England l
speeded like the wind.
The day and night were blended till !
reached my bOyhood's home.
And the old cliffs seemed to mock me that
had not sooner come
And gray are the rocks of New England.
1 could not think twas Katie who sat be
fore me there,
Reading her bible-'twas my gift-and pill
lowed in her chair.
ring. with all my letters, lay on little
stand
She could no longer wear it. 50 frail her
poor white hand
But strong is the love Of New England.
Her hair had lostits tangle and was parted
off her brow;
7AAG NAoCN ~ DC Jus 81 A. AlNAt
an angel now;
Heavens darling now, mino 40 longer: yet
in her hazel eyes
The same dear love light gllstened, As she
sOOthed my bitter cries
And pure IS the faith Of New England.
A month watched her dying, pale, pale
as any rose
That drops its petals one by one and
SweetenS IS it goes.
Ny life was darkened Wheu at last her
large eyes closed IN death,
And heard my own name whispered as
she drew her parting breath
Still, still was the heart Of New England.
It was a wofuI funeral the coming Sab
bath day;
We bore hertO the barren hin on which
the graveyard lay,
And when the narrow grave was uIcd, and
what we might was done,
OF all the stricken group around l was the
IOneliest one
And drear are the hills Of New England.
gazed upon the stunted pines, the bleak
November sky,
And knew that buried deep with her my
heart hencefOrth would lie,
And waking in the solemn nights lET
thoughts still thither 90
To Katie, lying in her grave beneath the
winter snow
And cold are the SHOWS OF New England