Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 8/Al fin de la jornada


The gathered storm was ripe, the big drops fell—
And yet she lingered silent as a stone,
Gazing with wildered eyes upon the night,
Whilst on her burning bosom for a while,
Of twilight whispers and deep noonday vows
The welcome shadow fell; one tremulous sob
Alone convulsed her parted lips, in ruth
That she might never see her home again—
Her early-loved and late-forgotten home,—
Nor the blue sky, nor yet the silent fields,
Grey with the dew of eventide, nor hear
The chafers humming aye their weary tune,
Nor the deep baying of the wakeful hound,
Far, far off in the distance, any more.

Anon she rose; a restless impulse urged
Her steps towards the river; fast it flowed
With current deep as slumber, the faint plash
Of the dark restless water surging past,
Washing the time-worn arches of the bridge,
In concord with the never-ceasing rain,
Made fitful harmony. All else was still.

The rain died slowly with the birth of day,
The river still flowed on to meet the sea,
The bright sky glistened through the frosted panes,
And all the sleeping streets awoke, and all
The busy hum of men arose to form
The orison she might not join again,—
She, whose nude shoulders, and long golden hair
Slow cradled by the undulating tide,
Shone in the early sunlight of the dawn.

F. M.